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Over  the  Hills  to  Broadway 


BY  THE 


REV.  JAMES  S.  STONE,  D.D. 


'  Who  can  live  in  heart  so  glad 
As  the  merry  country  lad  ?  " 


PHILADELPHIA  : 

PORTER  &  COATES, 

1893. 


Copyright,  iSgj,  by  Porter  &  Coates. 


S87o 


iHote. 

'T^HEY  who  have  read  the  "Heart  of  Merrie  England"  will  scarcely 
need  to  be  told  in  what  part  of  England  to  look  for  the  places  named 
in  the  following  pages.  The  villages  lie  near  the  borderland  of  Glouces- 
tershire and  Worcestershire,  and  if  the  reader  will  take  his  map  and  find 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  he  will  see  Shipston-on-Stour  lying  south  ten  miles, 
a  little  to  the  east,  and  Evesham  more  to  the  west  of  the  same  point  of 
the  compass.  South  of  a  line  drawn  between  the  last  two  towns  are  the 
places  hereinafter  referred  to.  My  gossip  will  be  better  enjoyed  if  the 
country  travelled  over  be  thus  ascertained. 

The  August  spoken  of  was  that  of  1892,  and  most  of  this  account 
was  written  at  or  very  near  the  time — all  of  it  within  the  region  traversed. 
I  have  made  little  revision  of  my  original  sketches.  They  were  written 
ill  pencil,  and  mostly  as  they  were  written  they  went  to  the  printer.  Pos- 
sibly, as  a  result  of  this,  my  readers  will  find  little  to  appreciate  except 
the  freshness  of  the  work.  I  have  taken  for  granted  that  whoever  took 
the  trouble  to  run  over  this  booklet  would  be  my  friend,  with  whom  I 
might  sit  in  my  study  or,  if  I  had  a  garden,  under  my  own  ivy,  and  at  my 
will  either  laugh  or  talk  seriously.  Such  an  one  would  have  kindly  feel- 
ing enough  not  to  misunderstand  me. 

The  illustrations,  made  expressly  for  this  article,  are  taken  from 
photographs  secured  by  me  while  at  Broadway. 

I  have  to  thank  the  proprietors  of  The  Americati  Church  Stoiday- 
School  Magazine  for  their  kind  permission  to  reprint  from  their  journal 
these  pages.  Should  this  reprint  prove  acceptable  further  articles  of  a 
similar  nature  will  find  their  way  into  the  magazine  and  further  reprints 
will  be  made. 

Philadelphia,  September  30,  1893. 

(3) 


1109802 


T  FLATTERED  all  the  beauteous  country  round, 

As  poets  use,  the  skies,  the  clouds,  the  fields, 
The  happy  violets  hiding  from  the  roads 
The  primroses  run  down  to,  carrying  gold  ; 
The  tangled  hedge-rows,  where  the  cows  push  out 
Impatient  horns  and  tolerant  churning  mouths 
'Twixt  dripping  ash-boughs, — hedge-rows  all  alive 
With  birds  and  gnats  and  large  white  butterflies. 
Which  look  as  if  the  May-flower  had  caught  life 
And  palpitated  forth  upon  the  wind  ; 
Hills,  vales,  woods,  netted  in  a  silver  mist, 
Farms,  granges,  doubled  up  among  the  hills  ; 
And  cattle  grazing  in  the  watered  vales. 
And  cottage-chimneys  smoking  from  the  woods, 
And  cottage-gardens  smiling  everj'where, 
Confused  with  smell  of  orchards. 

— Elizabeth  Barrett  Browniiig. 


(4) 


©bet  tljc  Ileitis  to  IStoaHtoajj. 


'IpO  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
-'-  'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 

And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 
Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
Who  is  more  happj',  when,  with  heart's  content. 

Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 

Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  lauguishment? 
Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 

Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career. 

He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by, 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 

That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 


In  the  small  hours  of  a  lovely  August  morning,  before  the  red  sun- 
glow  had  touched  the  chimneys  or  the  flowers  had  shaken  off  the  dew- 
drops,  we  made  ourselves  ready  for  a  day's  drive  across  countrj-  to  Broad- 
way and  back.  The  townsfolk  were  scarcely  ready  for  their  breakfast 
when  our  wagonette,  drawn  by  a  good,  sound  horse  from  the  "Bell," 
rattled  over  the  pebbles  of  New  Street.  As  we  drove  along,  a  woman  with 
a  sunbonnet  on  her  head  opened  her  front  door  to  see  who  at  .so  early  an 
hour  had  presumed  to  disturb  the  peace.  In  her  hand  she  had  a  long 
fork,  the  prongs  of  which  pierced  a  bloater  :  evidently  she  had  come  from 
the  fire  where  she  had  been  toasting  the  same.  The  policeman  leaning 
against  a  lamp-post  in  front  of  the  "George"  bade  us  good  morrow  in 
tones  so  civil — -that  is  to  say,  civil  for  first  thing  in  the  morning — that 
we  shall  think  more  kindly  after  this  of  Sir  Robert  Peel's  institution.  And 
yet,  somehow  or  other,  better  than  this  neatly-dressed  and  well-trained 
constable,  a  Dogberry  would  correspond  with  the  ancient  appearance  and 
the  quiet  life  of  Shipston. 

(5) 


6  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

We  were  soon  clear  of  Sheep  Street  and  out  in  the  country.  As  it 
happened  we  could  not  have  had  a  more  lovely  day.  Sunshine  and  cloud 
were  well  distributed,  the  temperature  was  delightfully  pleasant  and  the 
roads  were  free  from  either  mud  or  dust.  There  were  four  of  us — one, 
besides  myself,  who  knew  every  bit  of  the  way  and  something  of  the  habits 
of  the  people,  and  the  traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  Our  spirits  bright- 
ened as  we  drove  gently  between  the  hedgerows,  now  fresh  with  green 
thoni  and  with  blackberry  bloom.  Briskly  ran  our  grey  trotter  up  the 
hillocks,  and  sturdily  did  he  pull  up  the  steeper  eminences.  The  flies  at 
first  were  troublesome,  but  a  light  wind  sprang  up  and  carried  them  off. 
In  the  ditches  and  the  sward  by  the  roadside  were  brilliant  poppies  and  large 
purple  thistles,  while  ever  and  anon  an  oak  or  an  ash,  perchance  a  beech, 
cast  its  refreshing  shade  over  the  way.  Englishmen  ought  to  recognize 
the  loyalty  of  the  ash,  for  it  is  said  that  in  the  year  of  Charles  the  First's 
execution  no  ash  trees  in  England  bore  any  keys,  and  there  is  a  saying  in 
this  region  which  aflSrms  that  ' '  if  there  are  no  keys  or  seeds  in  the  ash 
trees,  there  will  be  no  king  within  the  twelvemonth."  Everybody  knows 
it  is  a  sacred  plant ;  so,  too,  is  yond  elder,  the  thick-clustered  berries  of 
which  are  fast  ripening  for  the  wine-vat — the  lightning  never  strikes  the 
tree  of  which  the  Cross  was  made.  Sometimes  we  pass  through  almost 
perfect  avenues,  the  giant  oaks  or  elms  making  gothic  arches  over  the 
road.  The  fields  displayed  the  plentifulness  of  the  harvest.  Here  were 
green  pastures  in  which  were  grazing  herds  or  flocks  ;  there  were  wide 
expanses  of  ripening  grain,  red-brown  or  golden-yellow,  the  tall  ears  heavy 
with  the  increase.  Many  fields  were  being  reaped — the  laborers  were  al- 
ready at  work  ;  soon  the  bearded  barley  and  the  nodding  oats  will  be 
gathered  in.  How  I  wish  I  could  describe  the  exhilaration  which  came 
to  us  as  we  beheld  scenes  so  calm  and  beautiful  and  varied  !  Nature  is  ever 
skilful  and  ever  kind.  Even  the  drops  on  the  thistle  thorns  sparkled  with 
diamond-like  loveliness.  The  dandelions,  rich  and  homely,  lay  in  the 
rank  gra.ss  beside  the  white-edged  and  golden-hearted  daisies,  brave 
enough,  as  it  were,  to  try  to  laugh  away  the  scorn  with  which  man  regards 
them.  And  the  small  fowl,  as  Dan  Chaucer,  who  so  dearly  loved  the 
sweet  and  merry  countr)',  called  them — the  linnets,  the  yellowhammers  and 
the  chafianches,  flit  across  the  road  with  hearts  light  as  the  sunbeams  them- 
selves. One's  soul  gladdens  as  one  looks  upon  the  earth  which  God  has 
made  :  "  And  God  saw  everything  that  He  had  made,  and,  behold,  it  was 
very  good."  See  the  tiny  wren  on  the  hedge-spray  !  One  moment,  and  it 
di.sappears  among  the  green  leaves.     Once  the  birds  tried  to  know  which 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  7 

of  them  could  soar  into  the  blue  sky  the  highest ;  and  the  wren,  so  light 
and  soft,  got  upon  the  eagle's  back,  and  when  the  strong,  swift  eagle  had 
gone  as  far  as  he  could  towards  the  sun,  far  beyond  the  wild  goose  and 
the  skylark,  then  the  wren  opened  her  little  wings  and  soared  higher  still. 
She  won  the  crown — still  abides  upon  the  fragile  .songster  the  golden 
crest ;  but  for  her  craftiness  it  was  decreed  that  ever  after,  instead  of  being 
able  to  fly  over  the  hedges  and  bushes,  she  should  be  compelled  to  go 
through  them.  Once  in  a  while  a  covey  of  partridges  whirs  over  the 
turnpike.  The  ist  of  September  is  nigh  at  hand  and  the  young  birds  are 
already  strong  of  wing  and  firm  of  flesh.  There  are  from  sixteen  to 
eighteen  of  them  in  a  covey  or  brood.  Not  a  few  of  them  break  their 
necks  or  their  wings  by  flying  against  the  telegraph  wires.  Like  hares, 
they  cannot  see  straight  before  them  ;  and,  also  like  hares,  they  are  very 
timid. 

After  crossing  the  Fossway  by  Porto  Bello — where  is  a  dog  much 
feared  by  strangers  and  tramps — we  quickly  came  in  sight  of  the  farm 
called  Compton  Scorpion,  but  instead  of  going  up  Goose  Hill,  which  leads 
to  it,  we  took  the  road  towards  the  left  and  went  in  the  direction  of  Ebring- 
ton.  Here  we  overtook  a  travelling  tinker  and  his  family.  He  was 
wheeling  a  truck  on  which  were  the  grindstone,  soldering  irons,  stove  and 
other  tools  and  materials  needed  for  his  business  ;  his  wife  had  a  child 
strapped  to  her  back,  and,  with  a  bundle  of  umbrellas  under  her  left  arm, 
by  her  right  hand  was  leading  a  boy  not  much  higher  than  her  elbow.  A 
dog,  shaggy-haired,  with  ears  and  tail  reduced  to  mere  stumps,  trotted 
in  front  of  them — a  roguish-looking,  intelligent  individual,  grave  and 
silent  as  a  philosopher,  that  would,  no  doubt,  steal,  fight,  bite  or  beg  with- 
out hesitation,  save  such  as  comes  from  wisdom  and  experience.  As  we 
drive  by,  the  man  touches  his  cap — all  these  pedestrian  tradesmen  are 
neither  rude  nor  wicked.  Some  of  them  are  thrifty  and  industrious,  living 
in  the  towns  in  the  winter,  and  in  the  summertime,  much  to  the  convenience 
of  the  villagers,  perambulating  the  countryside  and  turning  over  many 
an  honest  penny  by  mending  kettles  and  sharpening  knives.  If,  when  on 
their  travels,  they  do  not  go  to  church,  that  is  mostly  because  the  people 
who  frequent  God's  house  do  not  desire  to  see  beside  them  a  seedy  and 
perhaps  an  uncleanly-looking  stranger  ;  happily,  while  man  looketh  on 
the  outward  appearance,  the  Lord  looketh  on  the  heart.  The  other  even- 
ing, when  driving  along  the  Foss  from  Moreton,  we  passed  a  gipsy  com- 
pany encamped  for  the  night  on  the  roadside  ;  they  had  a  roofed-in 
wagon — a  cottage  on  wheels — and  behind  it  was  erected  a  small  tent. 


8  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

Close  b}'  blazed  a  fire  over  which  was  suspended  a  pot,  and  around  which 
were  four  or  five  men,  some  women,  two  or  three  dogs,  and  a  number  of 
children.  The  horses  were  grazing  not  far  away,  and  in  a  cage  hanging 
on  the  door  of  the  wagon  was  a  magpie.  These  people  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  Christians,  as  much  so  as  did  the  lords  and  ladies  we  saw  some 
months  since  driving  in  Hyde  Park.  They  were  not  ill-clad,  nor,  as  they 
waited  for  their  supper,  did  they  seem  to  be  other  than  happy.  Some 
were  whittling  sticks,  some  were  smoking,  some  talking,  and  others  busy- 
ing themselves  in  various  ways.  One  woman  was  mending  a  coat  while 
deep  in  gossip  with  an  elderly  crony  by  her  side  peeling  turnips.  Another 
woman  was  tying  together  the  wildflowers  which  the  children  had  gath- 
ered, and  on  her  face  lighted  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge  a  bit  of  sun- 
shine, making  her  look  even  pretty  and  cheerful.  A  man  was  trying  to 
rivet  afresh  the  ribs  of  a  parasol  which  looked  as  though  it  had  once 
shaded  the  brow  of  a  countess.  Up  to  us  ran  four  or  five  boys  and  girls 
begging  for  some  gift ;  their  swarthy  complexions  and  their  persistence 
remind  us  of  Italy.  They  take  the  pence  we  give  them,  bow,  curtsey  and 
go  back  to  the  fireside.  Are  these  people  expected  to  go  to  heaven  when 
they  die  ?  I  am  told  that  these  men  and  women  are  nearly  always  married 
by  the  Church,  and  that  they  bring  their  children  to  Baptism  ;  but  I  never 
saw  such  as  they  at  Divine  service — except,  possibly,  in  the  countries  of 
southern  Europe, — and  I  almost  faucj'  that  society  has  reached  the  con- 
clusion that  where  lavender  water  and  white  collars  are  not,  the  soul  does 
not  abide. 

In  the  fields  are  feeding  flocks  of  geese  and  crowds  of  rooks — white 
and  black  together  ;  one  set  eating  the  grass  and  the  other  set  picking  the 
worms.  The  bright  day  bids  us  hasten  from  the  moral.  Though  late  in 
the  season,  a  cuckoo  starts  out  of  a  tree  near  by  us  and  passes  infield. 
And  there,  to  our  right,  lies  Ebringtou,  a  pleasantly  .situated  village — 
though  the  Gotham  of  the  neighborhood — about  five  miles  from  Shipston. 
It  is  a  little  out  of  our  way,  but  it  is  one  of  those  places  that  must  not  be 
passed  by. 

As  with  most  of  the  villages  we  shall  see  to-day,  three  words  describe 
it  sufficiently :  quiet,  old  and  tiny.  The  church,  which  contains  some 
Norman  work,  and  which  was  built  by  the  brethren  of  Pershore  Abbey, 
has  a  plain  tower,  and  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  some  comfortable  and 
well-carved  oak  pews,  put  up  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  for  a  few 
monuments.  It  once  had  a  Jacobean  three-decker  and  a  gallery,  but  these 
have  been  removed.     The  effigy  in  stone,  on  the  north  side  of  the  altar,  is 


OVER  THE  niLI,S  TO  BROADWAY.  $ 

tliat  of  Sir  John  Fortescue,  Lord  Chancellor  of  England  in  the  time  of 
Henry  VI.  He  bought  the  manor  in  1450,  and,  having  obtained  some 
fame  as  an  expert  lawyer,  a  loyal  Lancastrian,  and  the  author  of  several 
books  of  a  legal  character — in  the  literary  style  of  which  books  he  shows 
himself  iinder  the  influence  of  the  early  renaissance — he  died  there  about 
the  age  of  ninety.  Among  other  opinions,  he  held  that  the  safeguard 
against  rebellion  is  the  well-being  of  the  commons,  and  that  "  ther  may 
no  realme  prospere,  or  be  worshipful  and  noble,  under  a  poer  kyng." 
Besides  this  monument,  are  others  to  the  memory  of  members  of  the 
family  of  Key  tes,  once  of  some  importance  hereabouts,  and,  as  one  of  them 
left  the  milk  of  ten  milch  cows  to  the  poor  of  the  parish  forever,  we  may 
suppose,  of  considerable  generosity. 

Among  the  epitaphs  in  the  churchyard,  two  are  not  unfrequently 
copied  into  the  local  newspapers.  The  first  is  on  the  stone  of  the  man 
who  made  the  church  clock  : 

This  world's  a  city  full  of  crooked  streets  ; 
Death  is  ye  market  place  where  all  men  meet ; 
If  life  was  merchandise  that  men  could  buy. 
Only  the  rich  would  live,  the  poor  must  die. 

The  other  comes  from  the  grave  of  a  man  who  died  in  i860,  aged 
eighty-four  years,  and  contains  a  grammatical  error  common  enough  in 

this  district  : 

From  our  hard  afflictions 

Unto  a  place  of  rest,  the  Lord  has  set  us  free  ; 
lie  hath  crowned  us  with  a  crown  of  joy, 
A  happy  change  for  we. 

In  the  year  1676  there  was  published  in  London  a  quarto  of  twenty- 
three  pages,  containing  a  story  which  made  no  small  stir  in  the  day 
when  the  events  it  narrates  were  enacted,  and  which  even  now  is  not  for- 
gotten in  this  neighborhood.  As  this  is  almost  the  only  bit  of  history  of 
which  this  place  can  boast,  I  wish  I  could  sit  by  one  of  the  cottage  doors, 
in  the  shade  of  the  trellised  honeysuckle,  and  peruse  the  quaintly  worded 
and  .startling  lines,  even  though  it  were  in  the  copy  given  in  the  Har- 
leian  Miscellany.  Thus  it  runs :  On  Thursday,  the  sixteenth  day  of  the 
August  of  1660,  Mr.  William  Harrison,  a  gentleman  of  seventy  years,  of 
much  gravity,  and  of  strong  Puritanical  proclivities,  steward  to  the 
Viscountess  of  Campden,  started  from  Campden  to  collect  rents  at  Char- 
ingworth,  the  other  side  of  Ebrington,  from  the  tenants  of  his  lady.     As 


lo  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

be  did  not  return  in  good  time,  his  wife  sent  her  servant,  a  John  Perrj',  to 
meet  him  ;  but  nothing  further  that  night  was  heard  of  either  master 
or  man.  The  next  day  Harrison's  son  came  irom  Campden  to  Ebrington, 
and,  having  found  Perry — who,  it  seems,  because  of  the  darkness  of  the 
night  and  a  great  mist,  had  not  been  able  to  pursue  his  search  imtil  morn- 
ing— obtained  some  information  of  places  where  the  steward  had  been 
the  day  before.  Nothing,  however,  was  seen  of  him ;  but  soon  they  heard 
of  a  poor  woman  leesing  in  the  field,  who  had  picked  up  on  the  highway 
near  a  great  furze  bush,  a  hat,  a  neckband  and  a  comb.  These  were  at 
once  recognized  as  Mr.  Harrison's,  and,  as  the3'  were  more  or  less  hacked 
and  blood-stained,  it  was  concluded  that  the  steward  had  been  murdered. 
Great  excitement  prevailed,  and  the  country  was  ransacked  far  and  near, 
but  the  body  could  nowhere  be  found.  John  Perry  was  arrested  on  sus- 
picion, and  after  having  declared,  first,  that  a  tinker  had  killed  his 
master,  and  then  that  a  gentleman's  servant  of  the  neighborhood  had 
robbed  and  murdered  him,  he  confessed  that  the  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted by  his  own  mother  and  brother.  He  gave  a  strikingly  circumstan- 
tial account  of  the  affair.  His  mother  and  brother,  he  said,  had  urged 
him  repeatedly  to  rob  Mr.  Harrison.  They  were  poor,  and  when  on  this 
occasion  they  heard  of  the  steward  going  to  collect  the  rents,  they  deter- 
mined to  waylay  him.  John  consented  to  the  robbery,  but  not  to  the  mur- 
der. In  the  dusky  evening,  when  the  unfortunate  gentleman  had  come 
within  a  bow-shot  of  Campden  Church,  Richard  Perry,  and  Joan,  the 
mother,  fell  upon  him.  The  steward  cried  out,  "Ah,  rogues,  will  you  kill 
me?"  John,  who  had  just  come  up,  begged  of  his  brother  to  save  his 
master's  life.  In  vain  ;  the  old  man  was  strangled  and  his  bodj'  was,  bj' 
Richard  Perry  and  his  mother,  thrown  either  into  a  mill-sink  or  into  the 
fish-ponds  ;  John  knew  not  which.  John  went  into  the  hen-roost  for  a 
while,  and  afterwards  he  took  his  master's  hat,  band  and  comb,  and  put 
them  where  they  were  found  by  the  gleaner.  The  mill-sink  was  searched 
and  the  fish-ponds  were  dragged,  but  without  success. 

Richard  Perry  and  Joan  were  at  once  taken  before  the  justice.  They 
protested  their  innocence,  but  John  swore  that  he  had  told  nothing  but 
the  truth  ;  and  on  the  way  from  the  magistrate's  house  a  ball  of  inkle — 
coarse  tape — fell  out  of  Richard's  pocket.  It  was  found  to  have  a  slip- 
knot at  the  end.  On  seeing  it,  John  declared  it  was  the  string  wherewith 
Richard  had  strangled  the  steward.  Moreover,  the  day  after  this  inquiry, 
being  Sunday,  the  pri-soners  were  taken  to  church  in  Campden,  the  minister 
having  a  de.sire  to  urge  them  to  repentance  and  confession,  and  on  their 


OVER  THE  IIIIJvS  TO  BROADWAY.  " 

return,  as  they  passed  Richard's  house,  two  of  his  children  met  him,  but 
scarcely  had  they  touched  him,  "  when,"  according  to  the  narrative,  "on 
a  sudden,  both  their  noses  fell  a  bleeding,  which  was  looked  upon  as 
ominous." 

So  at  the  assizes  the  mother  and  her  two  sons  were  sentenced  to  be 
hanged,  and  a  few  days  after  they  were  brought  to  the  gallows  erected  on 
Broadway  hill  in  sight  of  Campden.  We  shall  pass  the  spot  by-and-by. 
The  mother,  being  reputed  a  witcli,  and  having,  as  was  supposed,  so 
bewitched  her  sons  that  they  could  confess  nothing  more  while  she  lived, 
was  first  hanged.  Richard  died  declaring  his  innocence  and  begging  of 
his  brother  to  tell  the  truth.  John,  with  "a  dogged  and  surly  carriage," 
.said  he  was  not  obliged  to  confess  anything  ;  but  before  the  noose  was 
placed  aromid  his  neck,  he  said  he  knew  nothing  either  of  the  death  or 
of  the  whereabouts  of  his  master.  In  the  face  of  his  former  confession 
no  heed  .seems  to  have  been  taken  of  this  statement. 

Thus  was  avenged  the  blood  of  this  aged  and  staid  steward,  and 
throughout  these  parts  ev'erybody  was  pleased  that  justice  had  been  done. 
When  the  winds  came  down  the  hillside  the  bodies  hanging  by  the  high- 
way swung  to  and  fro,  the  chains,  grown  rusty  with  the  rains  and  dews, 
creaked,  and  the  big  kites  and  buzzards  found  it  hard  to  hold  on  to  their 
prey.  And  the  wayfarer  looked  up  at  the  woman  and  her  two  sons — a 
ghastly  sight,  now  that  their  clothes  were  torn  and  their  flesh  well-nigh 
off  their  bones — and  he  thanked  God  that  judgment  was  meted  out  to 
evil  doers  and  resolved  never  to  do  aught  that  wotild  bring  him  to  so  dire 
an  end.  Now  comes  the  curious  part  of  this  melancholy  historJ^  Two 
years  after  the  execution  of  the  Perrys  the  steward  quietly  walks  into  his 
own  house  at  Campden  and  to  the  surprise  and  consternation  of  everyone 
tells  an  extraordinary  tale.  As  I  think  of  it  I  recall  that  scene  in  the 
fifth  act  of  Mrs.  Centlivre's  "The  Man's  Bewitched,"  where  Sir  Jeffrey 
Constant,  by  some  supposed  to  have  been  dead,  appeared  to  his  farmer 
Roger  and  to  his  steward  Trusty  :  look  it  tip,  kind  reader,  and  enjoy  more 
than  the  smell  of  brimstone.  Mr.  Harrison  declared  that  instead  of  en- 
countering the  Perrys  on  the  night  of  his  supposed  murder,  he  had  been 
seized  by  some  strangers  as  he  came  through  the  narrow  passage  amongst 
Ebrington  furzes,  who  bound  and  blindfolded  him  and,  carrj'ing  him  to 
Deal,  put  him  on  board  a  ship  going  to  Smyrna.  Here  he  became  slave 
to  a  physician  of  eighty-seven  years  of  age,  who  had  been  in  England 
and  who  now  put  him  to  keep  his  still-house  and  to  pick  cotton-wool ;  but 
the  venerable  Mahometan  dying,  Mr.  Harrison  contrived  to  escape  and 
after  many  strange  adventures  at  last  reached  home. 


12  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

The  mystery  has  never  been  cleared  up.  In  the  tract  which  gives 
the  story,  notwithstanding  his  own  plain  and  graphic  description  of  his 
capture,  exile  and  return,  doubts  are  expressed  whether  the  steward  was 
ever  out  of  England  ;  and  this  partly  upon  the  ground  that  an  old  and  an 
infirm  man  was  scarcely  worth  spiriting  away,  and  that  the  price  fetched 
for  him — seven  pounds  according  to  his  account — would  not  have  paid  for 
the  trouble  and  charge  of  conveying  him  to  the  seaside.  As  the  son 
succeeded  in  the  stewardship  it  was  supposed  by  some  that  he  may  have 
had  part  in  the  abduction,  and  yet  it  is  hard  to  think  that  he  should  have 
consented  to  his  father's  transportation  or  to  the  death  of  three  innocent 
persons.  Others  found  it  difficult  to  believe  that  Mr.  Harrison  purposely 
absented  himself  from  his  employment  and  forsook  his  family,  for  he  had 
lived  plentifully  and  happily  in  his  servdce  for  over  fiftj^  years  ;  he  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a  just  and  a  faithful  servant,  and  in  his  house  he  left 
behind  him  a  considerable  sum  of  his  ladj-^'s  money.  But  what  about 
Perr>''s  confession  ?  He  secured  the  hanging  of  himself,  his  mother  and 
his  brother.  This  seems  incredible,  and  the  more  we  think  of  the  whole 
matter  the  darker  it  becomes.  Now  it  can  never  be  explained  until  the 
judgment  comes. 

So  profound  a  mystery  seems  out  of  place  in  a  village  where  cats 
walk  on  the  tops  of  garden  walls,  catching  flies  and  arching  their  backs 
at  caterpillars,  and  there  appear  no  boys  to  molest  them  ;  but  human  life 
is  at  bottom  much  the  same  everywhere,  as  said  an  old  plaj^-character : 
"I  have  known  poor  Hob,  in  the  country,  that  has  worn  hob-nails  on's 
shoes,  have  as  much  villany  in's  head  as  he  that  wears  gold  buttons  in's 
cap."  Move  aside  the  fresh- fallen  leaves  or  the  straw  which  the  wind  has 
blown  on  the  way,  and  you  will  discover  the  trail  of  the  serpent — even 
where  the  elm-shadows  soften  the  glare  and  the  hen  chuckles  as  .she  finds 
grubs  for  her  hungry  brood.  Every  village  has  had  its  traged}' ;  yet  the 
ivy  creeps  over  the  church-walls,  the  bumble-bee  makes  her  nest  in  the 
mud-wall  like  as  the  martin  bores  the  sand-bank  and  the  field-mouse 
nestles  among  the  roots  of  the  hawthorn,  and  in  the  garden  blooms  the 
great-faced  sunflower  and  the  sweet-.scented  carnation.  Nature  goes  on 
the  same  as  ever,  and  still  the  delver  is  in  the  ditch,  and  the  fo.x  hears  the 
tally-ho.  It  is  well,  and  I  shall  not  break  my  heart  because  in  j'onder  cot- 
tage, where  the  swallows  .sit  on  the  chimney,  which  scarcely  ri.ses  above 
the  green  and  brown  thatch,  and  the  vine  tendrils  grow  about  the  hinges 
of  the  little  diamond-paned  windows,  and  indoors  doubtless  are  coffers 
where  the  moth  sleeps  and  lays  her  eggs  among.st  bunches  of  lavender  and 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  13 

winter  flannels,  and  the  crockery  is  either  warm  yellow  or  willow  blue, 
and  the  cider  flows  through  a  wooden  tap, — I  say,  I  shall  not  break  my 
heart  because  once  something  was  done  in  that  house  at  which  men's  blood 
ran  cold.  If  I  hear  of  such,  I  shall  get  out  into  the  sunshine.  I  shall 
thank  God  that  for  me  the  birds  still  sing,  and  the  blue  sky  is  the  floor  of 
heaven.  I  shall  still  believe  that  life  is  "a  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves 
yet  folded." 

Therefore  I  am  ready  enough  to  believe  that  it  was  not  through  its  fault 
that  Ebriugton  became  one  of  the  haunts  of  the  Night  Coach.  Probably  the 
gentleman  who  drives  that  equipage  loves  good  roads  and  pleasant  scenery, 
and  finding  such  in  this  neighborhood,  he  simply  seeks  here  his  own  satis- 
faction. It  has  never  been  ascertained  who  this  individual  is,  but  he  has 
been  seen  many  times  in  different  parts  of  the  country.  Years  ago,  a  cobbler 
at  Acton,  in  Suffolk,  on  passing  in  the  evening  a  park-gate,  heard  a  rush- 
ing and  grinding  of  stones,  with  a  cracking  like  a  body  of  men  walking 
over  dry  sticks,  for  which,  considering  that  not  a  breath  of  wind  was  stir- 
ring, he  could  not  account.  So  frightened  did  he  become,  that  he  stood 
stock  still.  The  sound  came  nearer.  Then,  suddenly  the  gates  swung 
open,  and  out  came  first  two  grooms  on  horses,  and  then  a  carriage  drawn 
by  four  large  hor.ses,  while  two  men  rode  behind.  But,  much  to  the  hor- 
ror of  the  poor  cobbler,  he  discovered  that  none  of  the  horsemen  had  a 
head.  As  the  coach  passed  him,  he  saw  inside  of  it  a  gentleman  and  a 
ladj%  sitting  side  by  side,  but,  like  their  attendants,  without  heads.  The 
whips  cracked,  and  the  strange  procession  rapidly  passed  out  of  .sight  and 
hearing.  The  shoemaker  hastened  home,  and  were  it  not  that  others 
remembered  that  the  old  folks  had  spoken  of  having  known  people  who 
had  seen  the  same  phenomenon,  it  might  be  supposed  that  it  had  been  a 
dream.  I  am  half-inclined  to  dislike  a  legend  which  represents  gentle- 
folks and  their  servants  without  heads  ;  but  then  these  people  lived  in 
olden  time,  and  Bishop  Latimer,  in  one  of  his  sermons,  says  :  ' '  There  be 
some  gentlemen  in  England  which  think  themselves  born  to  nothing  else 
but  to  have  good  cheer  in  this  world,  to  go  a  hawking  and  hunting." 
Now  the  times  have  changed,  and  gentlemen  not  only  have  heads,  but 
they  also  use  them  for  better  things  than  shooting  pigeons  or  worrying 
foxes.  The  legend,  however,  is  no  idle  tale.  It  is  well  known  that,  one 
mi.sty  morning  in  the  year  of  grace  1780,  a  farmer,  walking  across  the  open 
country  near  Ebrington,  saw  an  old-fashioned  coach  drawn  by  six  horses. 
This  did  not  .strike  him  as  singular,  until  he  saw  the  coach  pass  rapidly 
through  the  furze  bushes  to  the  brink  of  the  steepest  part  of  the  hill,  on 


14  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

the  other  side  of  which  there  could  be  for  it  nothing  but  iustant  destruc- 
tion. The  farmer  hastened  to  the  edge,  but  he  could  discover  nothing — 
not  a  fragment  of  either  carriage  or  horse,  and,  what  was  as  strange,  not  a 
trace  in  the  ground  of  a  wheel  or  a  hoof  He  knew  that  his  eyes  were 
good,  for  darnel  did  not  grow  among  his  wheat,  and  darnel,  as  everybody 
since  the  time  of  Plautus  and  Ovid  knows,  is  bad  for  the  sight.  Then  he 
realized  that  he  had  seen  the  Night  Coach.  It  is  a  pity  that  he  had  not 
thought  of  this  a  little  earlier,  for  it  would  have  been  a  satisfaction  to  have 
known  whether  this  carriage  had  four  wheels  like  most  earthly  coaches, 
or  only  three  as  had  that  in  which,  driven  by  a  long-no.sed  driver,  certain 
monks  were  seen  to  cross  the  Rhine  at  Spires.  No  one  seems,  for  many 
years,  to  have  caught  a  sight  of  this  coach,  though  commonly  enough 
settle  down  upon  this  country-side  thick  fogs  in  which  trees,  ricks,  cot- 
tages and  cattle  are  to  the  spectator  distorted  into  shapes  fantastical  and 
weird  enough  to  inspire  the  simplest  rustic  imagination.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber how  many  steeds  there  are  to  Thor's  chariot,  but  I  know  that  when 
in  this  region  the  clouds  lower  and  the  flashings  of  the  horses'  hoofs  are 
seen,  the  rattle  and  the  rumble  of  the  wheels  make  one  think  that  the  day 
of  doom  has  come. 

The  villagers  are  superstitious ;  when  have  meu  hoed  among  cabbages 
and  drunk  decoctions  of  dandelion  roots,  and  not  been  so  ?  Said  Terence, 
.some  two  thousand  years  ago:  "What  unlucky  prodigies  have  befallen 
us  !  A  strange  black  dog  came  into  the  hou.se  !  A  snake  fell  from  the  tiles 
through  the  skylight !  A  hen  crowed  ! ' '  Wherever  in  a  cottage  you  see 
hanging  a  rope  of  onions,  there  you  may  be  sure  are  to  be  found  omens  and 
wonders  ;  the  good  man  will  take  lieed  over  which  shoulder  he  first  sees  the 
new  moon,  and  which  boot  he  first  draws  on  ;  the  housewife  will  watch  the 
coals  in  the  fire,  and  look  to  it  that  she  .spill  not  the  salt,  nor  stand  in  the 
cupboard  the  basins  brim  up.  Not  so  long  since,  a  man  saw  a  great  bird, 
probably  a  hawk,  hovering  over  a  house  not  far  from  Ebrington  ;  he  told 
me  somebody  would  die  in  that  hou.se  within  three  days.  The  day  after, 
the  mistress  thereof  breathed  her  last.  A  generation  since,  mothers  here- 
abouts passed  their  children  through  a  gap  in  a  hawthorn  hedge  to  cure 
them  of  the  whooping-cough,  sick  people  swallowed  quantities  of  .shot  to 
keep  down  the  lungs,  and  old  men  carried  in  their  pocket  a  potato  to 
prevent  rheiunatism,  while  but  a  little  earlier,  folks  would  lay  two  straws 
across  to  see  if  the  ancient  woman  coming  along  would  prove  her  witchery 
by  avoiding  them.  King  James  the  First  knew  that  witches  could  ride  to 
the  East  Indies  in  egg-shells,  and  change  themselves  into  cats  and  hares  ; 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  IS 

and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  told  ' '  Spectator ' '  that  Moll  White— who  got  into 
the  dairymaid's  churn,  and  who  had  a  tabby-cat  of  bad  repute — had  been 
often  brought  before  him  for  making  children  spit  pins  and  giving  maids 
the  nightmare. 

We  will  take  a  tumbler  of  hard  cider — cooling  and  refreshing  on  a 
day  like  this.  Ebrington  has  some  things  that  tend  to  the  comfort  of  the 
creature,  and  the  good  woman  hands  over  the  gate  glasses  of  that  beverage 
which,  as  it  comes  from  the  finest  and  tartest  of  apples,  is,  on  a  summer 
morning,  sufficient  to  make  a  king  happy.  "  Yabberton  isn't  such  a  bad 
place  after  all, "she  says,  "is  it?  "  "  'Tisgood  sleeping  in  a  whole  skin," 
quoth  Dick  Coomes,  and  we  were  afraid  to  say  much,  for  Ebrington 
people,  knowing  that  the  folk  of  the  villages  adjacent  think  lightly  of  their 
wisdom,  are  very  touchy.  It  is  dangerous,  for  instance,  to  ask  a  native 
the  way  to  Ebrington,  or  the  price  of  wheelbarrows.  I  am  reminded  of  a 
little  colloquy  I  heard  at  Jersey  City  between  two  newsboys.  They  had 
been  having  a  few  words,  partly  in  fun  and  partly  in  earnest,  and  one 
called  out  to  the  other :  "  Do  you  know  what  the  rain  said  to  the  dust  one 
day  ?  "  "  No. "  "  If  I  come  down  upon  you,  I  shall  turn  you  into  mud. ' ' 
It  is  impossible  to  say  what  might  happen  to  the  man  who  should  stir  up 
the  ire  of  an  inhabiter  of  this  place. 

The  merry  and  naughty  Poggio,  who  more  than  four  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago  served  as  a  secretarj^  in  the  Papal  Court,  and  who  ought 
therefore  to  have  laughed  less  and  to  have  been  more  circumspect,  gave 
the  world  some  curious  tales,  over  which  they  who  know  the  Latin  in 
which  he  had  the  consideration  to  write  them,  are  apt  to  become  hilarious. 
Among  these  facetiae  was  one  of  a  peasant,  who,  having  worked  in  his 
field  till  noon,  unyoked  his  oxen,  tied  his  plough  upon  his  ass,  which  he 
bestrode,  and  started  for  home.  After  a  while  the  rustic  perceived  that 
the  load  was  too  great  for  the  poor  donkey  ;  so  he  alighted,  placed  the 
plough  on  his  own  shoulder,  and  mounted  again  his  donkey,  saying  : 
"Thou  canst  get  on  now ;  for  it  is  no  longer  thou,  it  is  I  who  carry  the 
plough."  The  same  author  tells  of  the  man  who,  to  please  others,  first,  on 
a  donkey  which  he  was  taking  unladen  to  market  to  sell,  set  his  son  ;  then 
put  off  the  youth  and  mounted  himself;  then  had  the  boy  get  up  beside  him  ; 
and  at  last,  both  getting  off,  tied  the  donkey's  feet,  hung  the  beast  on  a 
staff,  one  end  of  which  he  put  on  his  son's  shoulder  and  the  other  on  his 
own,  and  thus  proceeded  on  his  way.  Irritated  by  the  further  banter  of 
the  spectators,  he  pitched  the  ass,  with  his  legs  tied,  over  a  bridge  into 
the  river  and  went  home.  He  pleased  nobody  and  lost  his  donkey  into 
the  bargain. 


i6  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

The  story  runs  that  a  mau  once  walked  from  Ebrington  to  Campden 
with  a  wheelbarrow  on  his  back.  This  he  did  to  please  himself,  and  as 
the  daj^  was  very  warm  his  pleasure  was  not  unalloyed  with  pain.  Next 
to  tumbling  over  a  barrow  in  the  dark  comes  carrying  one  ;  try  either, 
and  experience  will  not  only  teach,  but  also  satisfy.  At  the  end  of  his 
journey,  putting  his  burden  down  and  wiping  the  .sweat  from  his  face, 
when  he  was  asked  why  he  had  not  wheeled  the  barrow  along  the  ground 
he  replied  :  "I'd  nur  a  thawt  o'  that."  This  gave  rise  to  the  following 
precious  rhyme,  which  I  carefully  took  down  at  the  dictation  of  one  of  our 
company — first  observing  that  in  some  versions  the  first  line,  instead  of 
the  word  "fool,"  has  the  word  "  maulm,"  which  is  a  local  expression  for 
a  stupid  person  : 

A  Yubberton  fool  to  Campden  went : 

To  buy  a  wheelbarrow  was  his  intent ; 

And  the  barrow  he  carried  from  town  to  town, 

For  fear  the  wheel  should  bruise  the  ground. 

Ebrington  had  its  noodles  as  well  as  Gotham  in  Nottinghamshire,  and 
Belmont  in  Switzerland.  Odd  drolleries  are  told  of  the  place  where  they 
soaped — some  say  boiled— the  donkey  to  get  his  liarness  off,  but  they  are 
not  peculiar  to  this  village.  How  these  stories  came  to  be  attached  here 
I  do  not  know.  But,  utterly  unaware  that  the  same  legends  have  been 
told  elsewhere  and  from  time  immemorial,  the  neighbors  declare  that  it  was 
Ebrington  people  who  devised  the  plan  of  hurdling  or  pinning  in  the 
cuckoo  so  as  to  secure  perpetual  summer,  and  that  it  was  an  Ebrington 
man  who,  to  get  a  cheese,  proceeded  to  rake  out  of  the  pond  the  reflection 
of  the  moon.  It  is  not  here  known  that  another  man,  who  likewise  mis- 
took the  figure  of  the  moon  for  a  green  cheese,  fetched  his  friends  to  help 
him  to  draw  it  out.  They  raked  until  a  passing  cloud  sank  the  cheese, 
and  then  went  home  sad  and  disappointed.  In  another  instance,  as  we 
are  reminded  by  the  author  of  the  "Book  of  Noodles,"  certain  towns- 
people impri.soned  an  ass  for  drinking  up  the  moon,  whose  reflection,  ap- 
pearing in  the  water,  was  covered  with  a  cloud  while  the  ass  was  drink- 
ing. The  next  day  the  burghers  met  together  to  consider  the  matter,  and 
to  prescribe  punishment  for  the  beast  according  to  his  deserts.  Then  it 
was  declared  that  as  it  was  not  fit  the  town  .should  lose  its  moon,  the  ass 
.should  be  cut  open  and  the  moon  he  had  swallowed  taken  out  of  him, 
which  was  done  accordingly.  This  story  has  not  reached  Ebrington  ;  the 
thistles  there  are  still  fresh. 

On  one  occasion,  desirous  of  imitating  the  illuminations  which  .some- 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  li 

times  are  made  at  Shipston,  the  libringtonians  secured  four  boltings  of 
straw  to  the  pinnacles  of  the  church  tower,  and  set  them  on  fire.  A  bolt- 
ing is  as  much  as  can  be  bound  or  bolted  by  a  band  of  straw.  The  blaze 
did  more  than  amuse  the  village.  Soon  the  lead  on  the  roof  began  to 
melt,  and  the  old  women  ran  out  with  their  buckets  to  catch  the  soft  water. 
It  is  said  that  traces  of  this  escapade  were  discovered  at  the  restoration  of 
the  church.  At  another  time  the  people  spread  manure  around  the  church 
tower,  that  it  might  be  forced  to  grow  as  high  as  the  one  at  Campden.  A 
heavy  rain  fell  in  the  night,  the  manure  sank,  and  the  next  morning  every- 
body was  satisfied  that  the  scheme  had  been  entirely  successful.  This  last 
experiment  has  been  tried  elsewhere. 

We  must  hasten  away  from  Ebrington,  or  we  shall  never  this  day  get 
over  the  ground  laid  out  for  us.  The  cows  beneath  the  trees  have  a  busy 
time  with  the  flies.  From  the  highway  by  Puddlicote  Hill  we  behold  the 
church  tower  of  Chipping  Campden,  rising  nobly  from  amongst  the 
trees  and  giving  earnest  that  in  that  sacred  fane,  and  in  the  town  to 
which  it  belongs,  there  is  much  which  will  delight  the  artist,  the  anti- 
quary and  the  historian,  and  stir  with  pride  the  inmost  soul  both  of 
the  Churchman  and  of  the  lover  of  village  peace  and  beauty.  The  hopes 
excited  are  not  disappointed.  Chipping  Campden,  as  it  is  one  of  the 
oldest,  .so  is  it  also  one  of  the  most  interesting  towns  in  this  region. 

Splendid  are  the  trees  by  the  roadside.  Like  arches,  their  thick,  leafy 
l>rauches  spread  over  the  way  and  break  the  force  of  the  sunbeams.  The 
churchyard  is  high  above  the  road,  and  around  the  steps  by  the  gate  at 
the  northwest  corner  is  a  group  of  children  and  women.  Further  along 
the  western  front,  at  the  principal  entrance  to  the  churchyard,  stands  a 
carriage  ;  near  it  are  more  women  and  children,  chattering  and  laughing 
after  the  manner  of  simple  country  folk.  An  aged  man,  in  gaiters  and 
smock  frock,  has  one  eye  on  us  and  the  other  on  the  jackdaws  perched  so 
gravely  on  the  great  tower.  We  get  out  of  our  wagonette  and  discover 
that  the  cause  of  the  excitement  is  a  wedding  ;  whereupon  we  hasten  into 
the  church,  for  we  are  not  free  from  the  curiosity  occasioned  by  such  an 
event.  This  is  the  third  we  have  chanced  to  see  this  summer.  On  Christ- 
mas Day,  1665,  Mr.  Samuel  Pepys  had  a  similar  pleasure,  and  he  wrote : 
' '  The  young  people  so  merry-  one  with  another  !  and  strangle  to  see  what 
delight  we  married  people  have  to  see  these  poor  fools  decoyed  into  our 
condition,  every  man  and  woman  gazing  and  smiling  at  them."  Samuel 
had  some  experience  at  match-making,  as  all  readers  of  his  diary  know 
well ;  he  was  cynical  on  the  subject.     As  we  pass  by  the  tombstones  into 


18  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

the  church,  snatches  come  into  our  mind  of  Sir  John  Suckling's  ballad 
upon  a  wedding  ;  we  think  of  Whitsun-ales  and  mice-like  feet,  and  Kath- 
erine  pears  and — rapid  association — of  Pretty  Bessie,  the  Blind  Beggar's 
daughter  of  Bednal- Green. 

The  young  couple,  accompanied  by  a  youth  and  a  maiden  of  the  same 
age  and  by  the  parish  clerk,  stand  at  the  entrance  of  the  choir.  A 
few  people  are  .scattered  about  the  church.  The  priest  is  reading  the 
Preface  to  the  Marriage  OfiSce — a  plain,  straightforward  homily  in  which 
considerable  information  is  given  in  a  few  minutes.  It  is  not  seemly  to 
have  Rachel  married  before  L,eah,  and  I  hope,  therefore,  if  the  bride  has 
an  elder  sister,  that  she  has  been  warned  already  to  be  "  not  afraid  with 
any  amazement, ' '  or,  to  use  the  old  saying,  that  she  has  visited  the  church- 
porch,  otherwise  the  elder  maiden  might  unhappily  wonder  at  the  number 
and  species  of  apes  which  will  be  allotted  her,  and,  perhaps,  in  carrying 
out  ancient  custom,  be  tempted  to  make  a  maulm  of  herself  by  dancing 
barefooted  at  the  wedding-feast,  and  earlier  by  soiling  her  green  stockings 
at  a  jig  in  the  hog-trough.  No  doubt  the  bees  have  been  told  of  this 
wedding,  aud  their  hives  have  been  decorated  with  a  ribbon  or  a  marygold. 
The  sun  shines  bright  enough  to  make  any  bride  happy  ;  and  as,  so  we 
may  presume,  she  was  not  present  when  the  bans  were  published,  and 
this  is  not  a  Sunday,  and  no  grave  is  open  in  the  churchyard,  she  has 
much  to  encourage  her  in  the  hope  that  her  life  will  be  long  and  joyful. 
Her  groom,  however,  is  not  a  little  shy.  This  is  a  new  experience  for 
him,  and  his  coat  is  tight  across  the  shoulders  and  rather  short- waisted. 
He  speaks  diflSdently,  as  though  the  august  rite  had  overpowered  him — 
for  the  clergyman  speaks  solemnly  and  sympathetically.  These  country 
parsons  are  in  touch  with  their  parishioners,  knowing  their  joys  and  sor- 
rows, their  weaknesses  and,  better  than  all  else,  their  virtues  ;  and  they 
impart  to  their  ministrations  an  impressive  awe  and  a  becoming  dignity. 
It  is  not  often,  indeed,  that  people  married  according  to  the  Anglican 
ritual — that  is  to  say,  when  the  ceremony  is  performed  by  a  priest  before 
the  altar,  and  the  sacramental  and  holy  nature  of  wedlock  is  recognized, — 
venture  to  seek  for  a  divorce  ;  among  these  peasants,  never.  Most  of  the 
petitions  which  come  before  the  secular  courts — which  alone  take  cogniz- 
ance of  .such  matters — are  for  the  di.sannulling  of  civil  or  separatist  mar- 
riages. This  man  responds  with  a  .seriousness  and  resolution  which 
become  one  who  stands  in  the  presence  of  Almighty  God.  By-and-by  the 
parson  holds  out  the  book  for  the  ring.  The  groom  is  taken  unawares. 
For  the  moment  he  has  evidently  forgotten  that  part  of  the   ceremony, 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  19 

though  as  likely  as  not  he  made  a  journey  to  Stratford  especially  to  buy 
the  circlet  of  gold  that  shall  both  adorn  the  heart-veined  finger  of  the 
bride  and  express  the  endlessness  and  reality  of  his  own  affection.  Puri- 
tanism was  as  bitter  against  wedding  rkigs  as  against  mincepies ;  but  no 
English  girl  would  think  of  being  married  without  this  token  and  pledge. 
With  difficulty  the  blushing  youth  got  the  ring  out  of  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  when  he  had  done  so,  it  was  so  tightly  bound  in  and  out  with 
tissue  paper  that  it  took  some  time  to  get  it  ready  to  put  on  the  bride's 
finger.  In  the  meanwhile  the  girl's  neck  and  cheeks  reddened  and  the 
clergyman's  patience  weakened.  The  parish  clerk  tried  to  help  the  hap- 
less groom,  so  did  the  bridesmaid  ;  but  more  haste,  less  speed.  At  la.st, 
much  to  the  relief  of  all  concerned,  it  reached  its  destined  place,  there  to 
remain,  if  evil  was  to  be  averted,  for  at  least  a  year  and  a  day. 

Did  we  laugh  at  the  incident  ?  Now,  my  good  reader,  you  must  not 
suppose  either  that  we  would  do  such  a  thing  in  church,  even  behind  a 
pillar,  or  that  it  may  be  said  of  us  "  The  priest  forgets  that  e'er  he  was  a 
clerk."  Some  years  ago,  when  in  Toronto,  the  writer  officiated  at  a  wed- 
ding in  a  church  packed  with  people.  When  the  time  came  for  the  giving 
of  the  ring,  the  groom  hesitated,  then  searched  his  pockets  once  and  again, 
and  then  got  the  best  man  to  see  if  he  had  not  the  ring  about  him.  The 
excitement  in  the  congregation  increased.  Some  one  ofiered  to  lend  a 
ring  for  the  occasion,  but  the  bride  would  have  no  substitute.  At  last  the 
groom  remembered  that  he  had  put  the  ring  into  a  waistcoat  pocket  which 
he  had  changed  when  dressing  for  church.  Nothing  was  to  be  done  but 
for  the  best  man  to  take  a  carriage  and  drive  to  the  groom's  house.  Then 
followed  fifteen  of  the  most  painful  minutes  man  could  ever  experience. 
The  situation  was  ludicrous  ;  but  witnesses  are  not  wanting  to  testify  that 
not  the  faintest  ripple  stirred  the  stubble  through  which  the  end  of  the 
pen  has  been  thrust  more  than  once  during  the  writing  of  this  paragraph. 
The  fun  took  place  in  an  arm  chair  a  little  later. 

The  church  is  very  neat,  light  and  clean.  It  occupies  the  site  of  one 
built  much  earlier,  for  Campdeu  was  a  town  of  considerable  condition  in 
the  first  Norman  reign,  and  there  is  evidence  which  tends  to  show  its 
existence  at  least  four  centuries  before  the  writing  of  Domesday.  A  more 
instructive  piece  of  Perpendicular  Gothic  could  not  be  desired.  Happily 
it  is  in  good  condition  and  gives  evidence  of  being  held  by  trustworthy 
hands.  There  are  some  monuments  to  the  lords  of  Campdeu  in  the  chapel 
at  the  east  end  of  the  south  aisle :  one  an  altar  tomb  under  a  canopy  sup- 
ported by  twelve  marble  pillars,  and  on  the  pediments  and  tablets  adorned 


20  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

with  the  arms  of  the  good  couple  buried  therein,  and  inscriptions  to  their 
memories.  Some  have  thought  that  this  monument  was  by  Nicholas 
Stone ;  but  there  is  little  evidence  for  this  assxunption,  unless  it  be 
claimed  that  at  that  time  the  great  sculptor  was  the  only  one  in  England 
who  could  do  a  really  fine  and  artistic  piece  of  work.  Against  the  wall  at 
the  foot  of  this  tomb  is  a  curious  monument  representing  a  cabinet  with 
open  folding  doors,  within  which  are  statues  of  a  lord  and  lady.  In  the 
chancel  is  the  largest  and  seventh  oldest  brass  in  the  county  of  Gloucester, 
commemorating  William  Grevil,  who  therein  is  described  as  the  "flower 
of  the  wool  merchants  of  all  England,"  and  who,  having  built  this  church, 
died  in  1401.  The  bandage  around  a  lady's  finger  in  one  of  the  busts,  and 
which  was  probably  a  purse  thus  carried  in  the  early  part  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  gave  rise  to  a  tradition  like  to  one  concerning  another  like 
it  in  Westminster  Abbey :  that  she  died  from  the  prick  of  a  needle.  There 
are  a  few  busts,  mural  tablets  and  brasses,  as  well  as  monuments  other 
than  these,  which  I  had  not  time  to  note. 

Many  interesting  bits  of  information  of  the  church  and  town  may  be 
seen  in  a  book,  entitled  "  Rambles  among  the  Cotswolds,"  just  reprinted 
from  the  Eveshatn  Jorirnal  by  its  author,  Mr.  Ernest  Belcher,  Assistant 
Master  of  the  Grammar  School  in  this  town,  and  one  of  the  most  indus- 
trious and  worthy  antiquaries  of  the  neighborhood,  even  though  his  years 
be  comparatively  few.  The  articles  came  under  my  notice  as  they  appeared 
in  the  columns  of  the  newspaper  just  mentioned,  and  I  am  glad  to  be  in- 
debted to  him  for  some  facts  and  suggestions  concerning  two  or  three  of 
the  places  mentioned  in  this  chapter.  From  him  I  get  an  inscription,  long 
since  uncipherable,  in  which  a  worthy  Thomas  Smyth,  lord  of  the  manor 
about  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century,  commemorated  his  offspring. 
He,  his  wife  and  children  are  buried  in  a  canopied  tomb  in  the  chancel, 
and  on  it  are  effigies  of  the  whole  family  ;  and  once  were  these  lines : 

Little  pretty  Betty,  Dorothy  and  Anue, 
Mary  and  Moselyn,  and  little  Gizzey  Ganime, 
Richard  and  Robert,  Geoffrey  and  John, 
Edward,  William,  and  little  pretty  Tom  ; 
These  are  all  Mr.  Smith's  children,  every  one. 
Besides  two  still-born  infants, 
A  daughter  and  a  sou. 

After  walking  around  the  churcli  and  through  the  graveyard,  we 
again  got  into  our  wagonette  and  proceeded  on  our  way.     The  village 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  21 

consists  mainly  of  one  long  street,  but,  as  we  drove  through,  we  perceived 
that  it  is  of  no  ordinary  kind.  The  houses  are,  for  the  most  part,  substan- 
tially built  of  stone.  Many  of  them  are  good  specimens  of  Elizabethan 
and  Jacobean  style.  The  market-hou.se,  .standing  in  tlie  middle  of  the 
street,  is  deserving  of  close  study,  and  scarcely  less  interesting  are  the 
almost  worn-out  dairy-rests.  Among  the  inns,  ancient  and  quaint  enough 
to  satisfy  such  as  know  in  the  good  oldsen.se  how  to  take  their  ease  therein, 
are  the  "  Old  Eight  Bells," — the  number  of  bells  in  the  church  tower, — 
"The  Live  and  Let  Live,"  and  "The  Rose  and  Crown."  In  bygone  days 
"  Ye  antient  towne  of  Chippyng  Campedene"  was  a  leading  mart  for  Cots- 
wold  .sheep  and  wool,  as  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  one  wool  merchant  be- 
came Lord  of  Campden  and  built  the  church,  and  other  merchants  lie 
buried  within  the  consecrated  walls.  Here  in  the  autumn  of  1651,  after 
the  battle  of  Worcester,  the  fugitive  Prince  Charles,  one  fair  day,  had  a 
quarrel  with  a  farmer  and  narrowly  escaped  detection.  The  Puritans  and 
the  Royalists  .sought  either  to  gain  or  retain  possession  of  the  town,  and, 
in  a  letter  written  in  1644  by  a  royalist  officer,  among  other  things  is  the 
curious  line  :  "  We  are  taking  great  paines  with  spades,  shovels  and  mat- 
tocks, planting  the  Gospel."  Good  soul,  it  would  take  more  than  his  and 
his  comrades'  pains  to  plant  the  Gospel  among  a  class  of  people  who  argued 
that  because  St.  Paul  wrote  for  a  cloak,  bishops  intho.se  early  days  wore  no 
lawn  .sleeves  !  Now  a  beautiful  and  mellow  old  age  has  fallen  upon  the 
place,  with  all  its  gentle  loveliness,  and  it  rests  in  a  happy  and  an  enviable 
peace. 

There  is  contentment  hereabouts,  I  do  not  question.  The  meek  .shall 
inherit  the  earth — and  old  Tyndale  gave  some  advice  on  this  .subject,  which 
in  these  villages  was  followed  somewhat  in  his  day,  and  for  aught  I  know 
the  like  practice  is  not  now  unknown.  "If  the  gentlemen,"  he  says, 
' '  that  dwell  about  thee  be  tyrants,  be  ready  to  help  to  fetch  home  their 
wood,  to  plough  their  land,  to  bring  in  their  harvest,  and  .so  forth  ;  and 
let  thy  wife  visit  my  lady  now  and  then  with  a  couple  of  fat  hens,  or  a  fat 
capon,  and  such  like,  and  then  thoushalt  possess  all  the  remnant  in  rest." 
And,  as  though  this  counsel  was  of  prime  importance,  he  repeats  it  in 
slightly  different  form  :  "Give  the  bailiff  or  like  officer  now  a  capon,  now 
a  pig,  now  a  goose,  and  so  to  thy  landlord  likewise  ;  or,  if  thou  have  a  great 
farm,  now  a  lamb,  now  a  calf ;  and  let  thy  wife  visit  thy  landlady  three 
or  four  times  in  the  year  with  spiced  cakes,  and  apples,  pears,  cherries,  and 
such  like.  And  be  thou  ready  with  thine  oxen  or  horses,  three  or  four,  or 
half  a  dozen  days  in  the  year,  to  fetch  home  their  wood,  or  to  plough  their 


22  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

land :  j'ea,  and  if  thou  have  a  good  horse,  let  them  have  him  good  cheap, 
or  take  a  worse  for  him  ;  and  they  shall  be  thy  shield  and  defend  thee." 
And  the  astute  reformer  adds :  ' '  Thereto  thou  mayest  with  wisdom  get  of 
them  that  which  shall  recompense  all  that  thou  doest  to  them."  I  am  not 
sure  that  any  modern  scholar,  writing  an  exposition  of  the  Go.spels,  would 
incorporate  in  his  notes  such  an  admonition  as  this  ;  but  he  might  go 
farther  away  from  human  nature  and  do  worse.  Were  I  ever  to  write  a 
commentary  on  the  Sacred  Scriptures — and  God  forbid  that  I  should  add 
to  the  blocks  of  books  which  now  perplex  the  little-minded — I  believe  I 
should  quote  this  passage  from  Tyndale's  Exposition  of  St.  Matthew,  so 
that  I  might,  if  possible,  vex  the  soul  of  the  democrat  and  leveller.  My 
forefathers  gave  ducks  to  the  lords  of  whom  they  rented  their  lands — with 
profit,  I  assure  you  ;  and  Parson  Ball,  hundreds  of  years  since,  as  you  may 
find  out,  if  you  choose  to  read  the  pleasant  story  of  the  Life  and  Death 
of  Jack  Straw,  used  to  sing  : 

But  merrily  with  the  world  it  went, 
When  men  ate  berries  of  the  hawthorn-tree. 

But  Tyndale  was  done  to  death  ;  bj'  whom  it  matters  nothing  now.  There 
are  lots  of  people  in  the  world  to-day,  who  would  burn  up  any  man  who 
should  teach  such  lessons  as  the  above,  and  who  would  destroy  without 
compunction  the  quiet  life  of  this  village  and  the  kindly  relations  which 
exist  therein  between  the  parson  and  his  flock,  and  between  the  folk  of  the 
great  house  and  the  people  of  the  cottage.  Before  long  the  smock-frocks 
of  the  old  men  and  the  scarlet  cloaks  of  the  old  women  will  be  seen  no 
more,  and,  unless  better  times  come  in,  instead  of  the  tenant  giving  his 
landlord  a  capon  or  a  fat  hen,  he  will  steal  from  his  landlord  the  bread 
which  the  landlord  should  have  for  himself  and  family.  Nevertheless,  let 
us  say  that  in  this  quiet,  old-fashioned  town  there  is  contentment. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  four  miles  after  leaving  Campden,  as  we 
ascend  the  high  lands,  the  hedges  disappear  and  stone  walls  take  their 
place.  The  higher  we  go,  the  more  extensive  and  picturesque  the  land- 
scape in  our  rear.  Far  away,  Brailes  Hill  bounds  in  the  verdant,  varied 
and  lovely  country.  But  when  we  reach  the  highest  point  of  the  Cots- 
wolds  hereabouts — Broadway  Beacon — a  thousand  and  fifty  feet  above  the 
sea,  we  behold  stretched  out  before  us  a  panorama  such  as  nowhere  else 
has  greeted  us,  and  .such  as  England,  rich  as  that  country  is  in  beautiful 
scenery,  nowhere  else  excels.  In  1798  was  built  on  this  elevated  point, 
a  tower  from  whose  battlemented  heights  the  view  is  considerably  en- 


5M 
« 

m 
o 


at 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  23 

hanced.  Though  the  tower  itself  is  modern,  it  is  a  fair  imitation  of  an 
ancient  castellated  keep — hectagonal,  with  three  turrets.  It  is  guarded  by 
an  aged  dame,  whose  bright-faced  little  granddaughter  accompanies  visit- 
ors up  the  spiral  staircase  and  points  out  to  them,  in  the  valley  below,  vil- 
lages and  other  places  of  interest.  And  enough  there  is  to  show  on  clear 
days  such  as  this,  when  only  the  faintest  haze  rests  upon  even  the  far-away 
mountains  of  Wales.  There,  in  the  wide  plain,  are  to  be  seen  the  three 
spires  of  Coventry  and  the  chimneys  of  Warwick  ;  still  farther  off  is  the 
Shropshire  Wrekin.  Nearer  at  hand  lies  Bredon  Hill,  lovely  foreground 
to  the  even  lovelier  Malverns.  And  there,  at  our  feet,  lies  the  fertile  vale 
of  Evesham — a  ver}^  garden  of  the  Lord,  that  no  Italian  plain,  no,  nor 
for  that  matter,  no  land  bounded  by  the  Euphrates  and  the  Tigris,  by 
Hiddekel  or  Pison,  can  be  more  beautiful,  more  rich  in  field  and  wood- 
land, in  verdant  knoll  and  leaf-embowered  streamlet,  in  peaceful  village, 
noble  mansion  and  tree-nestled  farm.  To  those  who  love  Nature,  God, 
once  in  a  while,  vouchsafes  a  picture  of  supremest  power  and  grace.  He 
has  done  so  to  us  at  this  time.  A  perfect  day,  and  a  mingling  of  richest, 
softest  colors,  romance,  vision,  joy — satisfying  and  heart-stirring. 

The  girl  just  referred  to  had  an  eye  for  the  unsurpassed  loveliness 
around.  She  enthusiastically  indicated  its  brightest  spots  ;  but  she  added, 
knowingly  and  pathetically,  "The  tower  is  awfully  cold  and  lonely  in  the 
winter-time."  We  can  well  imagine  the  days  when  the  wind  sweeps  along 
the  bare  hillside  and  the  rain  beats  against  the  lattice.  Then  comes  Mel- 
ancholy ;  and  in  the  dismal  gloom,  far  from  sight  and  sound  of  cheerful 
company,  one  feels  that  life  has  some  depths  one  cares  not  even  to  look 
into. 

When  we  had  exhausted  the  time  at  our  disposal,  reluctantly  enough 
we  descended  the  stairs,  wished  our  little  guide  good-bye,  and  proceeded 
in  our  carriage  to  the  highway.  On  the  hill-top  we  passed  the  ancient  and 
.solitary  inn  called  the  "Fish,"  and  began  the  steep  and  dangerous  de- 
scent towards  Broadway.  By  the  way,  unless  the  keeper  of  the  "  Fish  " 
paints  his  sign,  before  long  nobody  will  be  able  to  tell  whether  he  intends 
to  display  a  tunny  or  an  elephant.  At  present  the  figure  looks  very  like  a 
pilchard  smitten  with  erysipelas.  Two  men,  .standing  by  the  door  as  we 
drove  on,  appeared  sadly  in  need  of  a  box  of  Pear's  .soap  and  a  case  of 
Redditch  needles. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  entered  Broadway.  I  had  never  been  here  be- 
fore, and  high  as  were  my  expectations,  yet  as  we  drove  down  that  quaint 
and  venerable  street — the  broad  way — my  heart  fluttered  with  joy.     It  is 


24  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

hard  to  describe  that  which  seizes  the  imagination  and  enlivens  and  quick- 
ens thoughts.  The  houses  are  mostly  of  stone,  some  of  them  being  over 
two  hundred,  and  a  few  over  three  hundred  years  old.  There  are  high- 
pitched  gables,  curious  finials,  mullioned  windows,  leaded  casements  with 
tiny  panes,  mighty  chimney-stacks,  and  strangely-fashioned  doorways. 
In  front  of  the  brown-hued  dwellings  are  gardens  in  which  appear  yew 
trees  shaped  in  odd  devices,  and  over  the  low  stone  walls  the  hollyhock 
displays  its  gaudy  colors,  or  the  woodbine  .spreads  its  fragrant  bloom. 
Between  these  walls  and  the  roadway  is  a  broad  and  an  irregular  stretch 
of  gra.ss,  making  a  pleasing  foreground.  On  this  grass,  here  and  there,  a 
few  children  were  playing  and  two  or  three  artists  were  making  sketches. 
Under  a  wall,  beyond  which  a  mighty  rosebush  was  in  flower,  a  cow  was 
quietly  chewing  the  cud.  We  move  leisurely  along  lest  we  should  disturb 
the  peace,  or  by  any  chance  break  a  cobweb  which  some  spider  should 
have  cast  across  the  road. 

Now  there  is  in  the  village  of  Broadway  an  hostelry  of  some  four 
hundred  years'  standing,  where,  over  a  mug  of  nut-brown  and  with  a 
church-warden  pipe — if  you  choose  to  smoke — one  can  easily  transplant 
one's  self  from  the  prosaic  and  comfortable  present  into  the  stirring  com- 
monwealth times,  or  even  into  the  brilliant  days  when  bluff  Harry  reigned  ; 
nay,  for  the  matter  of  that,  with  scarcely  greater  effort,  into  earlier  ages 
still.  The  very  look  of  the  place  is  to  the  lover  of  history  an  inspiration  ; 
a  peep  through  the  doorway  is  sufficient  to  make  one  forget  the  warm  sun- 
shine and  such  commonplace  things  as  grand  hotels  and  railways,  and  to 
see  at  once  red-faced  yeomen,  verderers  and  archers,  merry  maidens  and 
sighing  swains,  trooping  along  the  low-ceiled  passageway  in  the  picturesque 
costumes  of  the  days  that  shall  never  come  again,  and  creating  a  babble  of 
noise  that  mine  host,  jolly  and  rotund,  finds  it  impossible  to  quell.  In 
the  days  when  Edward  the  Sixth  was  king,  the  hou.se  was  known  as  the 
White  Hart  Inn — pleasant  suggestion  of  the  times  when  in  the  woodlands 
and  parks  not  so  far  away,  the  huntsman  sped  the  arrow  after  the  fleeting 
buck  or  doe  ;  within  the  present  century  the  property  fell  into  new 
hands,  and  the  name  was  changed  to  the  "  L,ygon  Arms,"  for  which  bit  of 
sacrilege  all  good  Christians  should  pray  that  repentance  may  be  vouch- 
safed the  perpetrators.  Here,  one  Saturday  in  the  March  of  1645,  came 
Charles  I ;  and  here,  one  night  just  before  the  battle  of  Worcester,  in  the 
September  of  165 1,  slept  Oliver  Cromwell.  The  room  occupied  by  the 
latter  worthy  is  still  indicated — a  delightful  old  chamber  with  some  bits  of 
former  ornamentation   and  tokens  of  pre.sent  comfort.     No  doubt  other 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  25 

celebrities  have  honored  these  walls  with  their  presence,  and,  beyond  per- 
adventure,  no  matter  what  his  rank  or  station  in  life  may  be,  he  who  can- 
not eat  his  beef  and  drink  his  ale  with  all  felicity  within  these  dear  old 
rooms  and  under  these  timbered  ceilings,  ought  forthwith  to  be  consigned 
to  the  limbo  of  vegetarians  and  total  abstainers — greater  misery  than  which 
it  would  be  hard  to  find  for  mortal  man.  And  here  in  the  one  main 
thoroughfare  of  Broadway  stands,  as  I  repeat  it  has  stood  for  the  last  four 
or  five  hundred  years,  the  quaint  old  inn.  I  look  at  the  dripstones  over 
its  windows,  at  the  gables  with  the  little  diamond-paued  casements,  at  the 
ivy  creeping  over  the  grey  stone  walls,  at  the  chimney-stacks,  at  the  sign 
post,  where  swing  the  arms  of  the  people  who  loved  themselves  better 
than  they  honored  the  past,  at  the  front  door  over  which  projects  a  lamp, 
and  I  know  that  here  the  heart  will  be  touched  by  associations  of  which 
a  king  might  be  glad.  This  impression  is  deepened  as  we  enter  the  cool 
and  pleasant  hallway.  The  shade  and  flag  flooring  are  refreshing  after 
this  warm  drive.  Some  one  asked  Khoja,  "  What  musical  instrument  do 
you  like  best?"  And  he  made  answer,  "  I  am  very  fond  of  the  music  of 
plates  and  saucepans. ' '  At  my  behest  the  courteous  and  gentle  hostess 
promised  to  have  dinner  ready  in  a  little  while ;  a  good,  plain  dinner  of 
roast  mutton,  green  peas  and  new  potatoes,  served  up  in  a  style  that  old 
John  Travers,  who  lived  here  in  the  reign  of  Philip  and  Mary,  would  have 
delighted  in — barring  the  wooden  trenchers,  the  leathern  ale-jacks,  and  a 
few  other  trifles  of  like  kind. 

The  horse  takes  to  his  oats  and  we  start  off  for  a  stroll  through  the 
village,  intending  to  be  back  at  the  Lygon  Arms  for  our  dinner,  as  the  old 
saying  hath  it,  in  pudding  time— an  allusion,  as  my  intelligent  reader 
quickly  apprehends,  to  the  ancient  and  economical  custom  at  dinner  of 
having  pudding  first ;  and  therefore  meaning  that  we  shall  have  our  legs 
under  the  mahogany  when  the  heat  from  the  dishes  is  fiercest  and  most 
savory.  We  turn  in  the  direction  of  the  Church  of  St.  Eadburga,  which 
church,  with  a  commendable  desire  for  the  health  of  the  people  of  Broad- 
way, the  Abbots  of  Pershore,  some  six  hundred  years  since,  built  a  little 
over  a  mile  from  the  town.  In  those  days  the  people  on  their  way  to 
Divine  service  had  opportunity  to  see  the  beauties  of  nature  and  to  hear 
the  small  birds  sing,  and  some  good  soul,  laden  with  the  blessings  of  this 
life,  had  a  chance  to  further  his  joy  in  the  next  world  and  to  help  his 
neighbors  in  this,  by  laying  a  convenient  and  pleasant  footpath  from  the 
village  to  the  sanctuary.  The  footpath  once  made  would  be  kept  in  re- 
pair, for  the  clergy  then  held  it  to  be  a  religious  duty  and  an  act  of  mercy 


26  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

for  the  people  to  mend  their  ways.  This  church  is  now  disused,  and  about 
half  a  century  since  a  new  edifice  was  opened  on  a  spot  more  accessible  to 
the  inhabitants,  as  the  guidebooks  put  it ;  a  wise  thing,  perhaps,  for  people 
do  not  care  in  these  days  to  expend  much  effort  in  serving  God,  and  dis- 
senting tabernacles  are  painfully  convenient.  The  street  of  Broadway  is 
about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  long,  and  in  an  old  manuscript  it  is  spoken 
of  as  ' '  the  broad  and  high  way  from  the  shepherd  cottes  on  the  mounted 
wolds  down  to  the  most  fruitful  vale  of  Evesham."  The  manor  is  as  old 
as  the  days  of  the  Mercian  kings,  and  from  the  tenth  century  to  the  six- 
teenth century  it  belonged  to  the  good  fathers  of  Per.shore.  In  those  days 
of  clerkly  ownership  Broadway  flourished.  Indeed,  till  the  railway  came 
into  the  land,  the  place  was  a  "bustling  thoroughfare."  The  horn  of  the 
post-boy  awakened  the  echoes,  and  the  coach  filled  with  passengers  from 
far-off  "Lunnon,"  and  drawn  by  four  sturdy  and  well-rubbed  horses, 
rumbled  and  rattled  twice  a  week  along  the  road.  Then  sprightly  Molly, 
first  chambermaid  at  the  White  Hart,  and,  for  sweet,  laughing  eyes  and 
pouting  lips  and  slender  waist,  by  far  the  prettiest  of  all  the  village  girls, 
got  from  Roger,  the  coachman,  a  picture  of  good  Queen  Charlotte  and 
another  of  a  sailor,  with  one  arm  around  a  fat  woman  and  the  other  waving 
a  cocked  hat,  and  out  of  his  mouth  a  bit  of  tape,  on  which  were  the  words 
he  was  supposed  to  be  uttering  :  "  Britannia  and  Betsy  forever."  These 
pictures  Roger  brought  all  the  way  down  in  his  great-coat  pocket,  and  he 
gave  them  to  Molly  behind  the  pantry  door,  with  just  the  nicest  squeeze 
and  kiss  that  ever  stalwart  youth  offered  to  blushing  maiden.  Perhaps  he 
loved  Molly  best  of  all  the  girls  he  knew  along  the  road  ;  and  she,  simple- 
hearted — for  she  had  never  in  all  her  life  seen  the  other  side  of  the  hill — 
thought  how  nice  he  looked  in  his  high  boots,  and  wondered  if  she  should 
ever  have  her  hair  done  up  in  a  tower  of  glory  like  the  Queen's.  Those 
were  merry  times  ;  but  now  Roger  and  Molly  are  both  dead,  and  the  .stage- 
coach is  gone,  and  the  post-boy's  horn  is  no  more  heard,  and  the  place  is 
a  deserted  village.  Perhaps  in  the  present  quiet,  sleepy  life,  many  would 
not  see  anything  to  be  thankful  for  ;  but  I  for  one  love  to  think  that  earth 
has  yet  a  few  spots  where  the  apple-blossoms  are  free  from  the  soot  of 
factory  chimneys  and  the  children  can  look  for  elves  under  the  dock- 
leaves.  Certainly  in  this  warm  noontide  the  street  is  still  enough.  A 
wheelbarrow  stands  by  the  wayside,  but  the  man  to  whom  it  belongs  is  sit- 
ting in  the  doorway  of  the  inn  near  the  green,  leisurely  quaffing  a  mug  of 
— well,  small  beer,  perhaps.  We  turn  aside  to  see  the  grange  in  which 
once  the  abbots  of  Pershore  and  other  members  of  their  fraternity  u.sed 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  27 

to  pass  part  of  tlie  sixraiuer  months.  Broadway  was  even  then  a  health- 
restoring  place.  This  house  is  supposed,  and  fairly  enough,  to  have  been 
built  early  in  the  thirteenth  century,  and  as  it  is  in  fair  preser\'ation  it 
affords  an  example  of  the  country  home  of  a  well-to-do  ecclesiastic  of  the 
period.  Since  the  monks  went  out  the  building  has  been  so  arranged  as 
to  serve  for  cottages,  but  pleasant  memories  freely  flow  when  we  enter  the 
cellar,  and  later  on  the  hall  and  the  oratory.  There  are  now  neither  wine 
butts  in  the  chamber  on  the  one  side  of  the  hall  nor  prayer-stalls  in  the 
chamber  on  the  other  ;  the  folk  who  have  lived  there  of  late  have  nothing 
to  do  with  malmsey  or  with  beads.  But  what  glorious  times  when  my 
lord  abbot  held  his  court  there  !  I  do  not  believe  that  the  rich  and  the 
poor,  the  great  and  the  small,  ever  loved  one  another  as  they  did  then. 
Of  course  they  quarrelled — even  brothers  do  that ;  and  sometimes  fight, 
too,  but  the  relationship  remains.  There  were  disputes  to  settle  between 
the  steward  and  the  tenants  :  this  man  failed  in  the  number  of  days  he  was 
bound  to  plough  the  abbot's  land,  and  this  man  came  short  of  the  geese 
he  should  have  furnished  against  last  Michaelmas ;  and  therefore  their 
holdings  are  in  danger.  But  my  lord  is  merciful — as  sons  of  the  earth, 
commonly  called  temporal  lords,  are  not — and  he  forgives  the  debt,  at  the 
same  time  reminding  those  standing  bj'  of  a  certain  parable  bearing  on  the 
subject.  And  he  gathers  together  his  friends  and  his  neighbors,  his  ser- 
vants and  his  villains,  and  a  right  merry  afternoon  and  evening  they  have 
beneath  this  old  timbered  roof.  I  would  give  much  could  I  but  go  back 
in  time  and  behold  the  merry  souls :  all  dead  and  gone  now,  but  none 
the  worse,  I  trow,  for  what  they  did  in  the  ancient  hall.  Perhaps  the 
men  then  knew  as  well  as  do  men  now,  how  to  cut  large  thongs  out  of 
other  folks'  leather ;  but  we  .should  forget  the  ill  and  remember  only  the 
good,  and  such  I  shall  do  as  I  picture  to  myself  the  portly  churchman  and 
the  worthy  yeoman  of  the  Kite's  Nest  knocking  their  blackjacks  together 
and  roaring  merrily  over  some  exploit  of  grave  Father  Ambrose,  the  ab- 
bot's chaplain, — a  man,  by  the  waj',  who,  while  he  never  laughed  himself, 
tickled  most  mercilessly  the  cockles  of  his  neighbor's  heart.  But  we  must 
get  back  to  Chapel  Street. 

The  walk  along  the  road  to  the  old  church  was  not  simply  pleasant, 
it  was  charming.  I  wish  I  could  have  such  a  saunter  every  Sunday 
morning  ;  certainly  I  should  afterwards  .sing  Venite  and  Benedicite  more 
heartily.  The  hedges  were  thick  and  .shady,  and  towards  the  end  of  our 
journey  the  trees  were  more  frequent.  There  is  a  fine  avenue  near  the 
churchyard  gate.     Three  or  four  steps  to  the  top  of  the  wall  and  then 


28  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

down  into  God's  acre.  The  wind  from  the  valley  lightly  swayed  the  tree 
boughs  ;  the  sunbeams  played  hide  and  seek  in  the  tall  grass  and  among 
the  gravestones.  A  dragon-fly,  splendid  of  wing,  darted  across  our  path 
and  once  a  toad  hopped  from  under  the  chancel  wall ;  but  there  was  noth- 
ing else  of  life — not  even  a  sheep.  We  were  alone  with  the  dead.  We 
wander  hither  and  thither,  striving  to  decipher  the  inscriptions  on  some  of 
the  time-darkened  and  displaced  monuments.  I  did  not  see  such  a  legend 
as  Nicholas  Breton  proposed  for  his  ' '  Merry  Honest  Fellow  ' ' : 

Here  lies  a  man,  like  hives  that  have  no  honey — 
An  honest  creature,  but  he  had  uo  money. 

But  from  a  stone  erected  to  the  memory  of  a  matron  who  died  June 
24,  1784,  at  the  age  of  eighty,  I  read  the  following  lines: 

Reader,  here  lies  a  Woman  of  such  are  left  too  few 
The  Poor  One's  friend  and  not  the  richest' s  foe 
The  virtuous  wife  and  tender  mother  too 
Whose  deeds  were  ever  faithful  good  &  true 
Beneath  this  stone  lies  slumbering  in  the  dust 
Go  live  like  her  that  when  Death   .... 
Your  work  may 

The  lower  part  of  the  stone  was  too  far  under  ground  for  me  to  make 
out  the  rest ;  but  my  reader  suffers  no  serious  loss.  I  give  this  because  it 
is  the  best  bit  of  obituary  poetry  I  could  find  in  the  churchyard,  and  there- 
fore furnishes  a  proof  that  the  Broadway  people  are  more  given  to  practical 
things^to  sheep  and  apples,  and  to  good,  fat  farmlands,  for  which  I 
heartily  love  them. 

I  know  not  whether  the  Saint  after  whom  the  church  is  named  was 
she  who  is  remembered  as  second  of  the  abbesses  of  St.  Peter's,  Gloucester, 
and  who  died  in  A.  D.  735,  or  some  other  of  the  several  Eadburgas  of  an- 
cient fame  ;  but  the  church,  cruciform,  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  thirteenth 
century  work.  It  is  strongly  built  and  looks  as  though  it  would  last  for 
many  a  long  year  yet.  The  chancel  appears  to  be  as  long,  though  not 
quite  as  high,  as  the  nave.  The  square,  plain  tower,  very  well  propor- 
tioned, rises  from  the  middle  of  the  building,  and  the  nave  has  on  either 
side  a  small  ai.sle,  which  aisles  with  the  tower  alone  are  battlemented,  the 
other  roofs  being  highly  pitched.  We  looked  through  one  of  the  windows 
into  the  building — bare  and  dusty  ;  but  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  some  day 
evensong  at  least  may  again  be  heard  therein. 

One  always  feels  more  or  less  inclined  to  moralize  in  an  old  church- 


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OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  29 

yard.  The  temptation,  as  we  rest  for  a  few  minutes  under  the  trees,  comes 
upon  me,  even  though  I  keep  steadily  in  mind  that  book  of  Hcrvey  which 
once  deliglitcd  and  enlivened  so  many  ancient  ladies  of  my  acquaintance — 
"  Meditations  among  the  Tombs."  I  used  to  read  it  myself  and  take  a 
pleasure  in  its  doleful  lines,  and  its  suggestions  of  musty,  damp  charnel- 
houses.  Drelincourt  was  another  precious  tome  that  pleased  the  old  folks  ; 
but  somehow  or  other,  as  I  get  nearer  the  time  when  over  me  some  one 
will  say  the  "  Forasmuch,"  as  I  have  said  it  over  many  and  many  a  silent 
brother  or  sister,  I  do  not  care  to  read  such  things.  Perhaps  I  do  not 
think  of  them  as  often  as  I  did  when  passing  through  the  .sentimental  years 
of  youth  ;  certainly  I  do  not  preach  such  tender  and  tearful  sermons  as  I 
did  when  but  a  young  priest.  Is  it  that  then  I  did  not  hesitate  so  much 
as  I  do  now  to  touch  the  heart's  red  sores  ?  Experience  in  the  pastoral 
office  has  not  made  me  more  bold  in  the  face  of  great  grief  There  was  a 
time  when  I  could  speak  to  one  afflicted  ;  now  I  have  to  keep  silent.  And 
these  Christian  people  who  lie  around  me  once  came  down  the  road  to 
church.  I  see  them  as  they  wander  along  in  twos  and  threes— some  gay 
as  the  blossom  on  the  hedge  or  the  blackbird  in  the  orchard,  and  others 
sober  and  thoughtful.  Homely  they  may  have  been,  but  sorrow  was  to 
them  as  deep  as  it  is  to  tho.se  of  higher  culture  ;  even  the  dandelion  bleeds 
when  you  break  its  stalk,  and  a  tree  that  has  all  its  days  grown  among.st 
other  trees  soon  dies  when  its  fellows  are  cut  down  and  it  is  left  to  itself 
Each  man  had  his  own  life,  little,  perhaps,  to  the  world,  but  to  him  very 
great ;  and  in  that  life  there  was  much  mingling  of  good  and  bad,  of  joy 
and  sorrow,  of  hope  and  doubt,  and  of  all  the  elements  that  go  to  make 
humanity  either  happy  or  sad.  It  is  so  now.  And  Sunday  after  Sunday 
the  bells  rang  the  villagers  to  the  .sanctuary,  and  Sundaj'  after  Sunday 
they  turned  their  .steps  hitherward.  The  day  came  to  each  one  when  he 
went  not  back  again. 

There  is  a  delight  past  description  in  turning  over  the  leaves  of  an  old 
parish  register  and  in  deciphering  the  entries  therein.  This  pleasure  will 
not  be  mine  at  this  time.  But  long  ago  I  picked  up  a  cop}'  of  Mr.  John 
Noake's  "Rambler  in  Worcestershire"  —  a  scarce,  but  most  delightful 
book, brimful  of  interest,  written  forty  years  since — and  in  the  pages  of  that 
worthy  antiquary  are  given  some  extracts,  curious  enough  to  the  curiously 
inclined.  Thus  we  discover  that  in  the  Broadway  register,  which  begins 
with  the  year  1539,  .some  scribe  perpetuated  his  dislike  for  Henrj'  VIII  by 
making  such  entries  as  the  following  :  "  These  vacancies  were  occasioned 
by  the  small  and  insignificant  maintenance  and  vicarage  afforded,  great  part 


30  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

of  the  parish  being  abbey  lands,  which,  together  with  the  tithes,  were 
disposed  of  blindly,  without  regard  to  the  credit  and  support  of  religion, 

b}'  that  lustful  beast,  King  Henrj'  VIII,  who  quarrelling  with • y' 

Pope,  that  he  was  not  by  that  man  of  sin  allowed  in  his  sinfull  change  of 
wives,  destroyed  the  religious  houses,  gave  way  y''  lands  to  such  creatures 
as  flattered  him  in  his  robberies,  lewdness,  and  murders  :  et  nunc  inferno 
docet  excviplo  niiscrabili  qnam  imp — sit  sacro  Dei  vocrarc."  After  much 
similar  abuse,  the  writer,  bent  on  making  history,  proceeds:  "The 
improved  rents  of  abbeys  amounted  to  ^1,500,000  per  annum,  yet  no  pro- 
vision was  made  for  preaching  or  praying  in  most  of  the  parishes  in  the 
kingdom.  Just  was  God's  judgment  against  Cromwell,  y°  promoter  of  y° 
suppression  of  religious  houses— that  he  was  sacrificed  to  y"  caprice  of  a 
la.scivious  woman — y'  Lady  Howard.  This  notable  reformer,  who  under 
that  pretence,  had  .seized  y'  revenues  of  y'  church,  when  he  came  to  die, 
ownd  he  had  been  seduced,  and  died  a  zealous  Papist.  He  was  attainted 
of  treason  and  heresie  without  being  heard  in  his  defence — a  proceeding 
y'  he  himself  had  too  much  encouraged.  Righteous  art  thou,  O  Lord,  in 
all  thy  ways,  and  just  are  thy  judgments." 

Possibly  the  parson  who  penned  these  plain  and  vigorous  lines  and 
thereby  gave  vent  to  his  indignation  lies  buried  somewhere  in  this  church- 
yard. He  wrote  much  more  in  a  like  strain,  but  this  will  do  for  an  illus- 
tration, though  I  cannot  help  thinking  how  red  in  the  face  and  short- 
breathed  he  became  as  he  depicted  the  fate  of  poor  Hal.  People  felt 
strongly  in  the  olden  time,  but  now  even  Queen  Mary  and  Queen  Elizabeth 
lie  side  by  side  in  Westminster  Abbey.  The  big  folios  in  which  the 
dismal  stories  and  ponderous  arguments  were  written  rest  in  the  libraries 
covered  with  dust  ;  once  they  were  read,  and  the  diligent  housewife  put  the 
newly-starched  bands  between  the  leaves.  And  yet  there  was  a  humour 
in  those  ancient  men  both  refreshing  and  helpful.  Tyndale  caught  his 
opponents  on  the  hip  when  he  declared  tliat  the  truths  of  Protestantism 
needed  no  miracles  to  support  them.  You  understand  that  better  when 
you  think  of  Loretto.  You  will  understand,  too,  more  of  the  disposition 
of  the  English  villagers  two  centuries  .since,  when  you  are  told  that  the 
churchwarden  of  a  small  town,  not  so  many  miles  herefrom,  Dinton  by 
name,  proclaimed  in  the  church  register  that  he  was  the  best  boxer  in  the 
parish,  with  the  exception  of  the  rector's  son. 

We  nuist  get  Ijack  to  the  Ly.gon  Arms.  Yonder  pigeons  remind  me 
that  in  the  Middle  Ages  dovecotes  were  provided  in  the  parish  churches  of 
England.     On  Whitsunday  the  rattling  of  the  wings  was  heard  from  over- 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  31 

head  in  the  clerestory  and  among  the  arches.  This  did  not  teach  docility 
and  gentleness,  for  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  besides  dancing,  bowling 
and  .shooting  at  the  butts,  the  men  indulged  in  cudgel-play  and  wrestling, 
and  thus,  not  unfrequently,  provided  work  for  the  leech  and  cause  of  tears 
for  the  women.  Rough  and  merry  were  the  folk  of  those  days,  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  even  the  fresh  rushes  and  gra.ss  strewn  on  the  church  floor 
were  long  left  unmatted  with  blood.  And  there  was  barley-break,  of 
which  Lauion  sings  in  Sir  Philip  vSidney's  Arcadia  ;  perhaps  also  nine 
men's  morris  and  prisoners'  base,  with  a  bear-baiting  once  in  a  while.  The 
girls,  too,  had  their  Whitsun-games— no,  not  to  catch  the  pigeons  !  I 
fancy  the  birds  were  rarelj'  molested.  But  at  this  time,  in  .some  parishes, 
the  maids  of  the  village,  having  their  thumbs  tied  behind  them,  ran  after, 
and  endeavoured  to  catch  with  their  mouths,  a  live  fat  lamb.  She  who  suc- 
ceeded was  styled  the  Lady  of  the  Lamb,  and  when  afterwards  the  roast 
was  ready  and  the  people,  boisterous  and  hungry,  sat  down  to  eat  it,  she 
presided  over  the  feast.  Sometimes  instead  of  a  lamb,  the  object  of  the 
chase  was  a  pig,  or,  to  use  the  Mahometan  euphemism  for  the  latter 
animal,  a  black  deer.  Rather  a  gay  way  of  spending  one  of  the  highest 
of  Church-days,  you  will  say ;  but  after  all  not  worse  than  the  modem 
custom  of  reading  newspapers  and  novels  on  a  Sunday.  By  this  time  our 
mutton  must  be  well-nigh  done. 

Bishops  and  coachmen  still  wear  breeches  and  gaiters ;  but  of  the  daj's 
when  all  men  appeared  in  that  becoming  costume— and  it  is  interesting  to 
observe  how  since  Queen  Elizabeth's  time  the  nether  garments  have 
gradually  worked  down  the  leg  till  they  now  touch  the  heel — I  never  think 
without  recalling  a  habit  of  Archbishop  Whately.  When  that  dignitary 
found  a  hole  in  his  archiepiscopal  stocking  he  used  to  stick  a  bit  of  black 
plaister  on  his  leg  where  the  hole  would  appear.  I  notice,  pegged  on  a 
clothes'  line,  a  pair  of  these  things.  Men  used  to  wear  them  in  country 
places  when  I  was  a  boy  ;  but  I  had  supposed  that  in  these  degen- 
erate days  none  used  them  save  those  who  handle  clergymen  and  horses. 
This,  perhaps,  is  well,  for,  given  a  priest  or  a  horse  with  bad  habits,  such 
as  obstinacy  or  viciousne.ss,  exceptional  gifts  are  needed  for  tho.se  who 
have  to  deal  with  such  ;  and  exceptional  men  should  be  distinguished. 
Thirty  years  la,st  February  an  unpopular  vicar  left  Broadway.  What  he 
had  done  does  not  matter  much  ;  but  when  he  departed  there  was  a  tre- 
mendous explosion  of  public  feeling.  It  is  hard  to  think  of  excitement  in 
a  village  where  a  pair  of  shorts  may  be  seen  airing  on  a  clothes'  line  in  the 
front  garden,  but  strange  things  do  happen  ;  and  one  who  .saw  the  anger 


32  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

of  the  villagers  that  day,  and  heard  their  cries  of  derision  and  their  shouts 
of  delight  as  the  carriage  bearing  the  obnoxious  parson  drove  away,  said 
he  could  only  liken  the  scene  to  Macaulay's  description  of  the  scorn  exhib- 
ited upon  the  appearance  of  Sextus  Tarquinius : 

' '  A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose  ; — 
From  the  housetops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  towards  him  and  hissed. 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses 

And  shook  its  little  fist." 

Rather  a  rude  farewell !  But  since  men  have  taken  to  trousers  they 
have  been  ever  so  much  gentler.  I  remember  a  parish — perhaps  it  was 
in  Canada — where  for  twelve  j'ears  the  people  had  been  trying  to  get  rid 
of  a  clergyman  they  did  not  like.  They  spoke  alternately  in  hints  and  in 
plain  words,  but  the  parson  went  not.  At  last  an  appointment  elsewhere 
was  offered  him,  and  his  parishioners  eagerly  arranged  to  bid  him  God- 
speed. So  pleased  were  they  that  they  determined  to  give  him  an  address 
and  a  present ;  and  for  this  purpose  a  large  meeting  was  held.  The  peo- 
ple were  very  kind  and  very  polite.  They  .shook  hands  with  him  more 
warmly  than  they  had  done  for  years.  There  were  no  such  ebullitions  of 
feeling  as  these  Broadway  folk  displayed.  But  when  the  churchwarden 
arose  to  read  the  address,  he  expressed  himself  so  sorry  that  their  beloved 
rector  was  about  to  leave  them,  and  from  the  address  recited  passages  in 
which  were  set  forth  the  profoundest  gratitude  for  all  that  he  had  done  for 
them  and  the  most  unqualified  assurance  that  the  poor  sheep  in  the  wilder- 
ness would  find  none  .so  good  as  he  to  care  for  them  ;  and  everybody 
realized  how  gentle  a  thing  religion  is,  and  what  an  influence  trou-sers  have 
had  on  men.  Many  of  the  people  wept  as  the  churchwarden  spoke.  The 
best  of  preachers  and  of  pastors  was  about  to  leave  them.  It  was  a  touch- 
ing sight — pocket  handkerchiefs  and  red  eyes.  But  how  nuich  better  than 
the  Broadway  plan  !  Only  to  be  sure,  when  the  clergyman  saw  the  sorrow 
his  departure  was  causing,  and  thought  of  the  ruin  that  his  withdrawal 
would  bring  upon  these  people,  he  forgot  the  long  years  of  opposition,  and 
with  tremulous  voice  said:  "  Brethren,  I  didn't  know  you  loved  me  like 
this  !     I'll  never  leave  you  !  No ;  I'll  never  leave  you  !  "     And  he  stayed. 

The  dinner  is  excellent  ;  so  are  our  appetites.  England  produces 
wonderful  mutton,  and  quite  as  wonderful  waiters.  We  have  a  man  in 
black  and  a  maid  largely  in  white,  to  serve  the  table.     They  are  as  sober 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  3J 

and  as  silent  as  though  they  were  ministering  to  the  dead.  Not  a  smile : 
not  even  a  question.  They  know  what  we  want  before  we  are  sure  of  it 
ourselves.  We  eat  and  for  a  while  say  nothing.  Said  M.  Merrygreek  to 
a  comrade — who  he  was  Nicholas  Udall  knows  better  than  I — "  Ten  men 
can  scarce  match  you  with  a  .spoon  in  a  pie."  We  feel  that  we  are  like- 
wise matchless  just  now.  But  time  mends  most  things  and  by  and  by  come 
nuts  and  port.  The  bottle  is  fresh  from  dust  and  cobwebs  and  brings  up 
the  lines  beginning : 

Troll  the  bowl  and  drink  to  me,  and  troll  the  bowl  again. 

And  the  cloth  is  drawn  and  the  servitors  are  gone.  Were  they  not  dumb 
waiters  ?    We  can  spend  half  an  hour  more  :  then  home. 

Happily  we  have  the  room  to  ourselves.  When  an  Englishman  is  ill- 
bred  he  has  not  his  equal  in  Christendom,  and  I  have  been  at  country  inns, 
and  at  city  inns  too,  where  I  have  been  made  to  feel  the  offensiveness  of 
such.  At  Oxford,  not  so  many  days  since,  a  stout,  vulgar  and  well-dressed 
clown  came  into  the  dining-room  where  I  and  my  friends  were  peacefully 
interested  in  our  beef  and  potatoes,  and,  sitting  down  at  a  table  close  by, 
began  to  stare  us  out  of  countenance.  Another  of  the  same  fellowship 
joined  him  and  the  two  found  much  merriment  in  watching  us.  Of  course 
our  dinner  was  spoiled.  To-day  we  have  every  felicity.  The  lines  have 
fallen  upon  us  in  pleasant  places :  whereof  we  are  glad  and  feel  well-dis- 
posed to  everybody.  There  is  nothing|.like  the  comfort  and  the  goodwill 
one  has  after  dinner.  I  do  not  wonder  that  l,ord  Mayors,  members  of 
parliament  and  all  folks  who  crack  filberts  and  sip  sherry,  are  such  kind- 
hearted  beings.  The  cellar  and  the  larder  do  much  for  charity  ;  and  I 
have  .sometimes  thought  that  cooks,  even  more  than  clergymen,  are 
responsible  for  the  falling  off  in  benevolent  subscriptions  which  sometimes 
happens.  At  any  rate  there  is  .something  in  a  man  who  can  eat  heartily. 
I  have  a  friend,  a  bishop,  who.se  appetite  is  fairly  good.  On  his  first  visita- 
tion to  a  rural  part  of  his  diocese  he  was  entertained  at  dinner  by  a  church- 
warden who  was  a  fai'mer,  plain  and  plump.  Among  the  dishes  was  one 
of  boiled  fowl,  and  they  who  know  what  American  housewives  can  do  with 
chickens  need  not  be  reminded  of  the  savouriness  of  such  a  course.  The 
bishop  was  hungry.  He  ate  fowl  once  and  twice.  Nor  did  he  refuse  a 
third  serving.  The  farmer  was  delighted.  His  eyes  sparkled  and  at  last 
he  exclaimed  :  "  O  Bishop,  we  have  much  to  be  thankful  for  !  Now  we 
have  a  bishop  who  can  eat.  Our  last  bishop  would  never  take  anything 
but  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  little  dry  toast — a  good  man,  but  he  couldn't  eat ; 


34  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

and  all  the  women's  preparations  were  lost."  My  friend  has  turned  out 
well — if  I  may  venture  to  pass  an  opinion  on  a  prelate.  No  man  is  any 
the  worse  for  being  able  to  enjoy  a  good  dinner. 

The  landlady  takes  us  over  the  house.  We  see  the  great  hall  where 
once  in  a  while  banquets  and  balls  occur  ;  also  the  comfortable  drawing-room, 
and  the  chamber  which  once  received  royalty.  The  view  from  the  stage 
on  the  roof  is  lovely,  and  the  way  up  winding  stairs  and  by  old  disused 
nooks,  some  under  the  rafters,  has  about  it  much  interest.  Then  in  the 
little  waiting-room,  at  the  request  of  our  genial  hostess,  we  make  an  entfy 
in  the  Visitors'  Book,  in  which  we  express  ourselves  as  having  greatly 
enjoyed  our  entertainment  at  Broadway,  and  at  the  Lygon  Arms  in 
particular. 

Before  we  leave  the  place  we  go  to  a  shop  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  where  are  .sold  odds  and  ends,  old  and  curious.  It  is  worth  while 
looking  at  the  furniture  and  household  articles  which  people  of  past  gen- 
erations used.  Candlesticks  and  snuffers,  cups  and  jugs,  blackjacks  and 
bootjacks,  clocks,  chairs,  vases  and  umbrellas  ;  and  above  all,  a  flint,  steel 
and  tinder-box;  These  were  common  in  my  boyhood  days  and  many  a 
time  I  have  made  a  light  in  this  way.  Pleasant  it  must  have  been  on  a 
wet  wintr}'  morning  to  find  the  fire  out  and  the  tinder  damp.  The  prudent 
woman,  however,  put  the  box  under  her  pillow.  Now  we  have  matches, 
and  never  think  of  thanking  God  for  them. 

Our  journey  back  was  by  another  and  perhaps  a  prettier  way  than  that 
by  which  we  came.  We  passed  through  villages  which  seem  never  to  have 
known  of  the  world  beyond  the  Cotswolds,  and  never  to  have  heard  either 
the  march  of  time  or  the  voice  of  change.  Here  and  there  the  road  was 
lined  with  trees  and  over  the  hedges  we  saw  now  a  field  j^ellow  and  thick 
with  corn,  now  a  meadow  where  side  by  side,  busy  getting  their  living, 
were  sheep,  crows,  geese  and  horses,  and  now  a  copse  from  beside  which 
peeped  church  spire  or  cottage  roof  In  some  of  the  villages  hereabouts 
still  remain  the  stone  crosses  by  the  wayside  whereat  in  days  long  since 
gone  by  the  traveller  said  his  prayers  and  the  preacher  gathered  the 
peasants  for  a  .sermon.  The  Puritan  does  not  appear  to  have  been  so  fierce 
in  this  obscure  region  as  he  was  in  other  parts  of  England  ;  hence  survive, 
not  only  the.se  crosses — a  fine  specimen  of  which  we  passed  on  our  left — 
l)Ut  also  in  the  churches  other  things  against  which  the  destroyers  of 
England's  peace  sternly  .set  their  faces.  Had  I  to  choose  a  spot  of  earth 
where  I  might  speedily  gather  upon  myself  the  moss  of  restfulness  and 
ol)livion,  I  should  hesitate  between  quiet  and  pretty  Willersey  and  the 


o 


•a 
o 

c. 
P5 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  35 

equally  reposeful  and  antique-looking  Weston-sub-Edge.  The  latter  vil- 
lage is  so  called  to  distinguish  it  from  Aston-sub-Edge,  which  lies  a  little 
beyond  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill.  This  Aston  is  in  the  Hundred  Rolls 
called  Eston,  and  the  two  villages,  one  lying  on  the  west  side  and  the  other 
on  the  east  side  of  the  liill,  under  the  edge  or  brow,  no  doubt  obtained 
their  names  from  their  respective  topographical  position.  They  are 
probably  of  Saxon  origin.  The  hill  lying  between  them  is  that  of  Dover's, 
so  called  after  that  attorney  by  whose  efforts  in  the  reign  of  King  James 
the  First  the  once  famous  Cotswold  and  Olympic  games  were  in.stituted  or 
restored.  From  this  rather  abrupt  and  jutting  break  in  the  Cotswold,  may 
be  had  a  glorious  view,  extensive  and  varied,  and  some  say  the  finest  in  all 
Gloucestershire.  I  do  not  like  it  so  much  as  the  one  from  Broadway 
Tower  ;  but  landscapes,  like  pictures,  depend  for  their  appreciation  much 
upon  associations  and  tastes. 

The  games,  which  were  held  on  the  Thursday  and  Friday  ofWhitsun- 
week,  consisted  of  "cudgel-playing,  wrestling,  the  quintain,  leaping, 
pitching  the  bar  and  hammer,  handling  the  pike,  playing  at  balloon  or 
handball,  leaping  over  each  other,  walking  on  the  hands,  a  country  dance 
of  virgins,  men  hunting  the  hare  (which,  by  Dover's  orders,  was  not  to  be 
killed),  and  horse-racing  on  a  course  .some  miles  long."  They  were  very 
popular,  being  frequented  not  only  by  the  people  of  the  neighborhood,  but 
by  visitors  from  distances  of  sixty  miles.  Prizes  were  given  and  hundreds 
of  gentlemen  for  a  year  after  each  contest  wore  "  Dover's  yellow  favours  " 
— perhaps,  not  only  because  the  games  developed  and  recognized  athletic 
prowess,  but  also  because  they  were  a  protest  against  the  rising  Puritanical 
prejudices.  The  inventor  and  director  of  the  games — who  is  spoken  of  by 
his  contemporaries  as  a  kindly  good-natured  man,  and  whose  appearance  on 
a  white  horse  and  clad  in  hat,  feathers  and  ruff  and  a  suit  of  the  king's 
clothes,  given  him  by  a  gentleman  of  the  bed-chamber  as  a  mark  of  appre- 
ciation, made  him  the  delight  of  the  country  side, — himself  once  wrote 
"  A',Congratulator>'  Poem  "  to  his  friends,  in  which  he  defends  his  "  inno- 
cent pastime  ' '  against  the  Puritan  charge  of  being  ' '  a  wicked,  horrid 
sin."  Ben  Jonson  has  some  verses  laudator)' of  his  "jovial  good  friend 
Mr.  Robert  Dover  on  his  great  instauration  of  his  hunting  and  dancing  at 
Cotswold  ; ' '  and  in  the  ' '  Merry  Wives  ' '  appears  a  reference — first  in  the 
folio  of  1623— to  coursing  on  Cotswold.  Good  Master  Slender  inquires  of 
Master  Page,  "How  does  your  fallow  greyhound,  sir  ?  I  heard  saj-  he 
was  outrun  on  Cotsall."  The  word  is  still  pronounced  "  Cotsold  "  ;  the 
sheep  cotes,  once  numerous  here,  giving  their  name  to  the  wold.     These 


36  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

hills  were  famous  for  their  flocks,  and  so  in  the  first  of  all  English 
comedies,  "Ralph  Roister  Doister,"  written  by  Nicholas  Udall  in  1550, 
it  is  said  of  a  timid  individual  who  was  to  be  urged  to  fight,  "Then  will 
he  look  as  fierce  as  a  Cotsold  lion  ' '  ;  and  everyone  knows  that  before  ' '  a 
sheep's  look  full  grim"  the  boldest  heart  may  be  forced  to  yield.  The 
games  came  to  an  end  about  1644,  and  though  attempts  have  been  made 
to  revive  them,  yet  no  attempt  has  been  successful. 

Weston-sub-Edge  has  a  large  Early  English  Church  and  in  the  church- 
yard are  to  be  found  inscriptions  which  some  may  think  worthy  of  remem- 
brance. The  following  dates  from  1781  and  is  on  the  grave  of  a  girl 
of  twenty-one  years  : 

With  patience  I  liave  run  my  race, 

Kind  death  hath  set  me  free, 
Now  I  am  in  another  place, 

This  world  is  not  for  me. 
Prepared  be  to  follow  me, 

When  death  doth  for  you  call. 
For  in  that  day  j'ou  must  obey. 

And  give  account  for  all. 

This  one  belonging  to  the  early  part  of  the  last  century  has  now  perished  : 

To  the  memorj'  of  Peter,  butler  to 
Sir  Wm.  Keyte,  Bart. 
Though  he  had  gone  to  kingdom  come. 
He  had  left  the  keys  of  the  cellar  behind  him. 

Here  is  another  funny  one  : 

I've  lost  the  comfort  of  my  life. 
Death  came  and  took  away  my  wife, 
And  now  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Lest  death  should  come  and  take  me  too. 

An  incident  happened  not  long  since  in  this  neighbourhood  which 
illustrates  both  the  sharpness  of  some  natives  and  the  simplicity  of  some 
constables.  A  man  of  the  name  of  Smith  acquired  a  taste  for  stripping 
clothes'  lines  and  in  several  villages  hereabouts  much  distress  en.sued, 
though  for  long  no  one  .suspected  the  real  culprit.  He  had  once  lodged 
at  Aston-sub-Edge  with  an  old  couple  named  Knight,  in  who.se  hou.se  also 
lived  his  sweetheart  and  her  cousin,  a  daughter  of  the  Knights.  One 
January  evening  Friend  Smith  came  to  call  at  the  cottage,  but  whether  to 
see  his  sweetheart,  or  his  aged  landlady,  or  the  "  old  chap,"  is  uncertain. 
On  the  line  in  the  back  premises,  however,  had  been  placed  to  dry  table- 


OVER  THK  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  37 

cloths,  blankets,  shirts,  handkerchiefs,  towels  and  other  like  articles — this 
being  Tuesdaj'  night ;  a  proof  that  these  good  people  did  their  washing, 
after  the  custom  of  honest  folk,  earlj-  in  the  week.  The  tempting  array 
was  too  much  for  Smith,  and  both  he  and  the  clothes  disappeared.  Two 
days  later  the  clothes  were  found  in  a  bundle  under  Smith's  bed  at  his 
lodging-house  in  Bretforton,  and  that  night,  .soon  after  Smith's  arrival 
home,  utterly  unaware  of  the  fate  in  store  for  him,  two  policemen  .started 
off  with  him  for  Campden.  On  the  way  they  pa.s.sed  through  A.ston. 
There  by  dint  of  an  ingenious  plea  as  to  his  innocence  and  an  amount  of 
entreaty,  he  was  permitted  to  see  the  old  lady  he  had  treated  so  badly,  and 
the  sweetheart  he  laid  claim  to  who  lived  with  her.  It  was  late,  and  it 
was  dark,  and  the  inmates  of  the  cottage  had  gone  to  bed.  The  sweetheart, 
apparently  the  lightest  .sleeper  of  them  all,  says  my  old  friend,  the 
Evesham  Journal,  was  prevailed  upon  to  open  the  door,  and  the  old  man 
Knight  also  appeared  on  the  scene.  This  was  not  sufficient  for  Mr.  Smith. 
Not  content  with  .seeing  the  young  woman  he  had  kept  company  with  for 
nearly  two  years  and  in  who.se  .smiles  he  had  basked  while  lodging  here 
from  the  end  of  August  to  Christmas  Eve,  the  prisoner  pleaded  to  be 
allowed  "  to  .speak  to  granny."  Said  the  sergeant,  "  I  don't  think,  Smith, 
you  have  any  cause  to  go  up  there  to  disturb  that  poor  old  woman  ;  yon 
can  see  her  another  time.  You  come  quietly  up  to  Campden,  and  then  you 
can  see  her  tomorrow."  Smith,  however,  did  not  wait  for  formal  permis- 
sion, but  proceeded  in  rather  hasty  fashion  upstairs,  and  breaking  in  upon 
the  old  lady  said,  "Well,  granny,  how  is  it  to  be  ;  do  you  mean  to  press 
the  case?  "  "  Idon'tknow,  William,"  said  the  poor  old  woman  ;  "  why  did 
you  do  it  ? "  She  had  not  thought  it  lay  in  him  to  perform  such  a  mean 
action.  While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  one  constable  was  on  the 
stairs  asking  for  a  light  and  the  other  constable  was  down  in  the  kitchen. 
Then  was  heard  a  ".scrabble"  and  after  that  the  breaking  of  glass,  and  the 
l)risoner  was  gone  through  the  window.  As  the  police  had  locked  the 
cottage  door  as  soon  as  they  were  inside,  they  could  not  so  readily  follow 
the  fugitive.  After  midnight  a  woman  saw  Smith  going  through  the  osier- 
beds;  but  the  constables  went  to  Campden  empty-handed. 

This  event  created  great  excitement  throughout  the  district  and  peo- 
ple began  to  think  of  Smith  as  a  hero.  Such  things  do  not  happen  every 
day.  There  is  always  enough  lawlessness  in  most  men  to  make  them  feel 
comfortable  at  heart  when  the  police  are  outwitted,  especially  when  the 
wrong  done  against  society  is  not  in  itself  either  great  or  cruel.  The 
jump  through  the  window  was  spoken  of  as  a  wonderful  achievement.  But 


38  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

mine  host  of  the  Seagrave  Arms  expressed  his  opinion  that  the  room  was 
never  left  at  all.  His  theory  was  that  Smith  with  a  stick  broke  the  win- 
dow and  thus  put  the  gentlemen  in  blue  off  the  track.  While  they  were 
in  pursuit  he  quickly  walked  downstairs  and  out  of  the  front  door.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  a  few  days  later  the  prisoner  was  arrested  at  Chipping  Nor- 
ton and  brought  up  for  punishment.  He  pleaded  guilty  and  was  fined  ; 
and  for  many  a  long  day  this  episode  will  be  remembered — even  when  Mr. 
Gladstone  and  his  Home  Rule  Bill  are  forgotten. 

After  a  while  we  reach  Mickleton,  which  may  have  been  at  one  time, 
comparatively  speaking,  "  a  great  town,"  though  now  it  has  little  to  boast 
of  either  in  size  or  in  noise.  There  is  an  old  church  with  a  fine  .spire,  and 
here  were  born  or  lived  several  persons  of  celebrity.  William  Shenstone, 
the  poet,  used  here  to  visit  his  friend,  the  Reverend  Richard  Graves,  the 
son  of  a  local  antiquary  and  the  author  of  that  amusing  and  severe  novel 
entitled  "  The  Spiritual  Quixote,  or  the  Summer's  Rambles  of  Mr.  Geof- 
fry  Wildgoose,  a  Comic  Romance."  Perhaps  some  Wesleyan  scholar  can 
point  out  where  the  fun  came  in.  This  Richard  Graves  was  an  eccentric 
little  man,  a  zealous  churchman,  sprightly  in  conver.sation,  and  maintain- 
ing to  the  verge  of  ninety  remarkable  health  and  vigour.  In  one  of  his 
letters  Shenstone  .speaks  of  eating  mutton  at  Mickleton  with  the  .squire, 
and  of  drinking  tea  at  the  vicarage  with  the  Curate's  daughter.  The 
latter  feat  seems  to  have  overpowered  the  poet's  mind,  for  on  leaving  the 
vicarage  he  wandered  about  on  the  hills  for  several  hours.  Both  he  and 
Richard  Graves  admired  this  young  lady,  but  Utrecia  Smith — such  was 
her  name— died  from  an  attack  of  smallpox  at  the  age  of  thirty,  and 
unmarried.  Then  to  the  memory  of  the  "  simple,  pure  and  elegant  girl," 
the  one  lover  put  up  a  sculptured  urn  and  the  other  wrote  some  lines. 
Another  native  of  Mickleton  was  Giles  Widdowes,  who  when  rector  of  St. 
Martin's,  Oxford,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I,  wrote  a  defence  of  Bowing  to 
the  Altar,  which  called  forth  an  answer  from  Prynne  entitled  "Lame 
Giles,  his  baitings."  But  "the  lawless,  kneeless,  .schismatical  Puritan," 
as  Widdowes  styled  his  kind,  would  have  had  an  answer  from  an  Oxford 
divine  had  not  Archbishop  Abbot  interposed.  The  peace-loving  prelate 
held  that  enough  had  been  said  concerning  a  matter  "wherein  Mr.  Wid- 
dowes foolishly,  aiid  Mr.  Prynne  .scurrilously,  have  already,  to  the  scandal 
of  the  Church,  exercised  their  pens."  A  nephew  of  Widdowes  was 
rector  of  Woodstock  in  the  time  of  the  Civil  Wars,  and  wrote  that  account 
of  the  "  Just  Devil  "  upon  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  partly  founded  the  plot 
of  one  of   his  romances.      Besides  these  persons  Mickleton   can  claim 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  39 

another  poet  in  Frances  Elizabeth  Steel-Graves,  bom  here  on  the  last  day 
of  the  year  1845,  and  whose  promise  of  talent  was  destroyed  by  an 
untimely  death.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  she  wrote  "  My  Queen"  ;  and 
truly  the  .song  has  about  it  a  right  exquisite  flavour.  I  read  it  for  the  first 
time  by  the  way.side  in  the  warm  afternoon  sun,  and  here  it  is: 

Where  and  how  shall  I  earliest  meet  her  ? 

What  are  the  words  she  first  will  say  ? 
By  which  name  shall  I  learn  to  greet  her  ? 

I  know  not  now — it  will  come  some  day  ! 
With  the  self-same  sunlight  shining  upon  her — 

Shining  down  on  her  ringlets'  sheen  ; 
She  is  standing  somewhere — she  that  I  honour — 

She  that  I  wait  for — my  Queen — my  Queen  ! 

Whether  her  hair  be  golden  or  raven, 

Whether  her  eyes  be  hazel  or  bine  ; 
I  know  not  now,  but  't  will  be  engraven 

Some  sweet  day  as  my  loveliest  hue  ; 
Many  a  girl  I  have  loved  for  a  minute — 

Worshipped  many  a  face  I  have  seen  ; 
Ever  and  aye  ;  there  was  something  in  it, 

Something  that  could  not  be  hers — my  Queen  ! 

I  will  not  dream  of  her  tall  and  stately  ; 

She  that  I  love  may  be  fairly  light; 
I  will  not  say  she  must  speak  sedately, 

Whatever  she  does  it  will  then  be  right. 
She  may  be  humble  or  proud,  my  lady — 

Or  that  sweet  calm  that  is  just  between — 
And  whenever  she  comes  she  will  find  me  ready 

To  do  her  homage — my  Queen — my  Queen  ! 

But  she  must  be  courteous,  she  must  be  holy  ; 

Pure  in  her  spirit,  this  maiden  I  love. 
Whether  her  birth  be  noble  or  lowly, 

I  care  no  more  than  the  Spirit  above. 
I  will  give  my  heart  to  my  lady's  keeping 

And  ever  her  strength  on  mine  shall  lean  ; 
And  the  stars  may  fall,  and  the  saints  be  weeping  ; 

Ere  I  cease  to  love  her — my  Queen — my  Queen  ! 

Nor  does  this  exhaust  the  worthies  of  Mickleton.  Among  the  owners 
of  the  manor  was  an  Edward  Fisher,  who  in  his  own  day  enjoyed  some 
reputation  as  a  historian,  linguist  and  controversalist.     He  was  a  strong 


40  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

opponent  of  the  Puritans,  and  as  he  lived  through  the  reign  of  Charles  I 
he  had  plenty  of  opportunity  for  the  display  of  his  prowess.  He  wrote 
four  or  five  books,  some  to  justify  the  observation  of  Christmas  and  Good 
Friday,  and  others  to  show  that  the  L,ord's  Day  was  not  to  be  considered 
as  the  Sabbath.  His  loyalty  to  Church  and  King  may  have  helped  him 
into  trouble ;  certainly  he  was  obliged  to  flee  the  country  on  account  of 
debt  and  he  died  poor.  In  their  outspoken  zeal  men  of  those  times  forgot 
kindly  manners:  "Soft  fire  maketh  sweet  malt,"  as  Tibet  Talkapace 
saith. 

In  the  Parish  Registers  there  are  copies  of  dispensations  granted  by 
the  vicar  about  the  year  1662  to  a  Mr.  Wm.  Widdowes — relative,  no  doubt, 
of  "  Lame  Giles  " — giving  him  permission,  owing  to  his  many  and  frequent 
diseases  which  "are  notoriously  known  to  y"  inhabitants  of  Mickleton," 
to  eat  flesh  in  Lent.  A  John  Walford  is  in  like  manner  relieved  from  a 
fish-diet.  These  dispensations  were  given  according  to  "the  statute  in 
that  case  provided  "  ;  but  in  these  days  when  a  man  finds  that  he  requires 
beef  at  times  when  the  church  forbids  its  use,  he  takes  the  law  into  his 
own  hands.  In  other  words  he  obeys  authority  when  and  as  he  pleases. 
Not  so  did  these  men  of  old.  They  got  certificates  of  their  infinnities 
from  their  physician,  and  then  to  their  "just  desires"  the  parson  "con- 
descended," as  he  puts  it,  to  grant  them  licen.se  to  continue  their  "  usual 
and  customary  meats,  dietts  and  drinkes." 

As  my  reader  has  probably  never  seen  such  a  license  I  here  transcribe 
one  for  his  edification  : 

"  ffeb  27,  i  Whereas  Mr.  John  Walford  of  Micklelou  in  the  County  of  Gloucr. 
1663  )  is  of  so  weake  and  iufirme  habit  an<l  constitution  of  body,  that  (in 
y^  iudgment  of  his  learned  and  skilfuU  physitian)  he  may  not 
refraind  eating  of  flesh  the  whole  time  of  the  Lent  wtout  a  grand 
debilitation  of  strength  and  impayring  of  his  health,  for  wch. 
case  he  craned  license  under  miue  hand  (according  to  y^  statute 
in  that  behalfe  p'iuded)  for  the  eating  of  flesh,  to  whose  iust  and 
necessary  request  I  did  accord,  and  granted  him  license  on  the 
day  &  yeare  above  written.    Hen  :  Hurst,  Vic  :  of  Mickleton." 

There  is  a  ghost-story  anent  some  woods  on  the  comb  or  hillside 
beyond  Mickleton.  In  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  a  grant  was  made  of 
the  manor  of  Mickleton — which  had  liitherto  belonged  to  the  Abbey  of 
Kyn.sham,  and  therefore  was  church  land, — to  a  court  favourite,  who  sold 
it  to  a  descendant  of  that  Grevil  who  built  the  chin-ch  at  Chipping  Camp- 
den.     The  new  owner,  Sir  William  Grevillc,  had  an  only  .son,  whom  it  is 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  4t 

said  he  one  night  shot  dead  in  Mickleton  hollow.  Ever  since  that  woeful 
night  the  murdered  boy's  ghost  has  haunted  the  place.  He  is  rarely  seen, 
but  passers-by  were  made  aware  of  his  presence  by  strange  and  unearthly 
moanings  and  screechings.  Hence  the  name  was  given  to  him  of  the 
"  Hooter."  Though  it  is  .said  that  years  have  gone  by  since  anyone  heard 
the.se  melancholy  sounds,  yet  as  we  drive  by  the  neighbourhood  we  are  told 
of  a  Shipston  man  who,  not  more  than  three  or  four  years  since,  riding  on 
horseback  by  the  copse  a  little  after  midnight,  distinctly  heard,  and, 
what  is  more  di.stinctly  saw,  the  "  Mickleton  Hooter."  He  de.scribed  him 
as  moiuited  on  a  black  hunter  and  gliding  down  the  hillside,  his  long  fair 
hair  blown  out  by  the  wind,  his  right  hand  pointing  to  some  object  far 
away,  and  his  eyes  bright  as  glowing  coals  of  fire.  He  made  no  noise 
other  than  the  wild  owl-like  cry  by  which  he  was  known.  His  steed 
glided  over  ditches  and  hedges,  and  when  he  reached  the  highway  he  .swiftly 
passed  by  the  Shipston  man,  whose  nerves,  as  may  easily  be  imagined, 
were  well-nigh  unstrung.  This  is  proof  enough  that  the  work  of  laying 
the  Hooter  said  to  have  been  done  about  the  close  of  the  last  century  by 
Staunton  of  Hidcote,  was  poorly  done.  There  is  no  doubt  that  if  the 
Shipston  man  had  not  been  so  bewildered  he  would  have  seen  with  the 
Hooter  the  pack  of  hounds  which  are  said  to  accompany  him  on  his  mid- 
night expeditions.  Beyond  a  day  in  bed  no  ill  consequences  seem  to  have 
come  to  this  belated  wayfarer  ;  but  the  evidence  is  enough  to  convince  the 
world  that  if  the  monks  of  Eynsham  had  not  been  deprived  of  their  lands, 
Sir  William  Greville  would  not  have  bought  it  or  have  killed  his  .son  upon 
it,  and  there  would  have  been  no  such  visitant  from  the  Underworld  for 
three  centuries  to  terrify  the  folk  who  in  spite  of  ale-muddled  brains  try 
to  find  their  way  to  their  homes  in  peace. 

It  is  curious  that  this  legend  should  have  found  credence  .so  long.  I 
remember  hearing  of  it  almost  thirty  years  since,  and  this  afternoon  I  am 
told  of  it  again  as  a  real  and  trustworthy  fact.  I  wonder  if,  after  all,  it  is 
a  variant  of  the  Wild  Hunter  of  Westphalia  and  Lower  Saxony  told  of  by 
Grimm  in  his  Teutonic  Mythology.  There  Hackelblock,  as  in  those 
countries  he  is  called,  was  doomed  to  continue  to  hunt  either  because  he 
used  to  go  to  the  chase  even  on  a  Sunday,  or  because  on  his  deathbed  he 
prayed  God  that  for  his  share  of  heaven  he  might  be  let  hunt  till  the 
judgment  day.  So  from  the  woods  he  comes,  his  dogs  barking  and  he 
hooting.  Not  a  few  villagers  have  heard  the  cry  of  his  hounds  and  the 
bla.st  of  his  horn,  and  some  have  even  seen  him  a.stride  his  black  headless 
horse  rushing  furiously  after  the  wolf  or  the  boar.     Grimm  gives  several 


42  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

pages  to  the  elucidation  of  this  legend.  Of  course  it  varies  in  many  par- 
ticulars, but  it  is  at  least  noteworthy  that  here  in  Gloucestershire  we  should 
have  a  Hooter  and  one  that  in  some  respects  answers  to  the  Hooters  found 
on  the  continent.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  people  hereabouts  avoid 
building  the  front  door  of  their  cottages  in  a  line  with  the  back  door  lest 
the  Hooter  should  pass  through  the  house,  as  he  is  apt  to  do  in  Germany  ; 
indeed,  I  do  not  think  he  is  ever  heard  or  seen  except  on  the  hillside  and 
along  the  highway.  Some  incredulous  folk  will  perhaps  declare  that  this 
is  no  more  than  the  crying,  howling  wind,  which  at  times  moans  like  a 
body  in  distress  and  at  others  hoots  like  the  soft-feathered  and  silent- winged 
night-bird.  But,  then,  if  we  are  to  listen  to  this  sort  of  stuff  we  shall  soon 
conclude  there  are  no  ghosts  at  all ;  and  then  what  would  become  of  the  posi- 
tive assertion  and  the  clear-cut  testimony  of  the  Shipston  man,  backed  up 
as  it  is  by  the  belief  of  three  hundred  years  ? 

The  bright  afternoon  does  not  seem  quite  the  time  to  talk  about  such 
things,  but,  gentle  reader,  we  were  merryhearted  and  we  do  not  know  that 
we  ever  wronged  anybody  in  our  life.  Because  you  and  I  have  never  seen 
the  wonders  that  sometimes  appear  to  the  people  of  these  regions  is  no 
proof  that  such  wonders  are  not  to  be  seen.  Rousseau  says  in  ' '  Eloisa  ' ' 
that  "  Men  of  little  genius  conclude  that  things  which  are  uncommon  have 
no  existence  "  ;  and  I  do  not  suppose  that  either  you  or  I,  uotwith.standing 
our  neighbour's  opinion  of  us,  care  to  think  of  ourselves  as  of  "  little 
genius."  At  all  events  there  are  in  these  cottages  and  villages  which  we 
pass  many  men  and  women  whom  no  amount  or  kind  of  argument  would 
convince  that  in  the  matter  of  apparitions  their  faith  and  the  faith  of  their 
forefathers  was  wrong.  Did  not  Richard  Jago,  a  priest  and  a  poet  of  the 
la.st  century-,  vicar  of  Snitterfield  and  the  man  who  .sought  to  immortalize 
Ebrington  in  verse,  preach  a  sermon  upon  "  a  conversation  which  was  said 
to  have  passed  between  one  of  the  inhabitants  and  an  apparition  in  the 
churchyard  of  Harbury  "  ?  Chastleton  is  not  far  from  here,  and  we  are 
told  by  the  author  of  "  Rambles  among  the  Cotswolds"  that  the  present 
rector  of  that  place  was  .sent  for  one  day  by  a  woman  and  asked  to  lay  the 
spirit  of  her  husband.  vShe  had  a  box  ready,  and  requested  the  parson  to 
put  the  spirit  in  the  box  and  take  both  to  a  pond,  and  there  lay  him.  It 
is  also  .said  that  at  Evenlode  three  clergymen  joined  in  putting  to  rest  in  a 
brook  the  .spirit  of  one  of  the  old  villagers.  This  was  a  facetious  individ- 
ual: he  would  keep  quiet  as  long  as  the  brook  was  full  and  if  one  of  his 
two  sons  had  a  shilling  for  every  .sixpence  the  other  had  ;  but  he  suc- 
cumbed to  the  clergy.     Nobody  knows  the  power  of  a  clergyman  in  .such 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  43 

affairs.  Diiriii};  my  curacy  at  Port  Hope  in  Canada  I  was  .seriously  asked 
to  do  the  .same  thing.  A  man  drove  in  from  the  country  to  get  me  to  go 
and  quiet  a  ghost  which  tried  him  beyond  bearing.  I  listened  to  his  story 
and  excused  myself,  let  us  say,  on  the  ground  that  I  was  only  in  deacon's 
orders,  and  therefore  unable  to  deal  with  a  ghost.  To  have  argued  against 
his  belief  would  have  been  the  fulness  of  folly. 

About  five  o'clock  we  reach  the  tiny  and  ancient  village  of  Ilmington, 
nestling  among  the  hills  on  the  edge  of  the  valley  in  which  lies  vShipston. 
In  all  probability  its  straggling  lanes  mark  the  thoroughfares  which  before 
Norman  kings  reigned  at  Westminster,  were  trodden  by  Saxon  hinds. 
The  quaint  stone  houses  with  gabled  roofs  and  latticed  windows  are  of 
cour.se  later,  but  even  they  give  evidence  of  considerable  antiquity,  and 
also,  it  may  be  added,  of  homely  comfort  and  peasant-like  independence. 
Several  famous  families  have  been  connected  with  this  place — for  instance 
the  Montfords,  the  Cannings,  the  Sheldons  and  the  Palmers.  In  the 
time  'of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  a  youth  of  the  Somersetshire  family  of 
Brents  found  refuge  in  this  village  long  enough,  under  the  disguised  name 
of  John  Buston,  to  fall  in  love  with  and  to  steal  away  the  daughter  of  the 
Lord  of  Adminton  and  Stoke.  In  due  time  the  adventurer  received 
through  his  wife  the  estates  of  his  father-in-law,  and  for  four  centuries  the 
manor  of  Adminton  and  Stoke  belonged  to  his  descendants.  There  is  a 
brass,  dated  1487,  in  the  north  tran.sept  of  the  church,  which  adds  further 
interest  to  this  suggestion  for  a  romance.  The  church,  however,  though 
prominent,  as  in  most  villages,  and  partly  of  Early  English  style,  has  little 
el.se  of  worth  than  this  and  similar  monuments.  A  mural  tablet  on  the 
west  wall  of  the  church,  dated  1763,  is  to  the  memory  of  a  strong-minded 
lady  of  the  name  of  Palmer,  who  was  entitled  to  quarter  the  arms  of 
Plantagenet.  She  seems  to  have  been  neither  law-abiding  nor  devout. 
When  called  to  account  for  her  neglect  of  public  worship  and  threatened 
with  prosecution,  she  one  Sunday  morning  took  a  dung  cart  and  jolted 
across  a  ploughed  field  to  Ilmington  ;  there,  entering  the  church  during 
.service,  she  vigorously  and  in  simple  English  anathematized  church,  par- 
son and  congregation.  She  then  retired  to  her  dung  cart  and  returned 
home.  This  is  one  of  the  best  remembered  incidents  in  the  history  of  this 
quiet  town. 

For  Ilmington  is  quiet — even  quieter  than  the  other  places  we  have 
seen  to-day.  Once  it  had  a  chalybeate  spring  which  had  .some  repute  for 
its  medicinal  qualities,  and  by  which  it  might  have  been  a  second  Bath  or 
I,eamington  ;  but  destiny  ordained  otherwise,  and  this  healthful  and  beau- 


44  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

tifuUy  situated  village  fell  into  the  sweetest  and  most  undisturbed  rest. 
As  we  drive  down  the  street,  the  dogs  prick  vip  their  ears  and  the  three  or 
four  women  working  in  the  gardens  peep  over  the  hedges,  as  though 
strangers  did  not  appear  every  day.  On  the  footpath  stands  a  "  wratch,'' 
as  they  here  call  a  feeble  old  man,  wearing  a  smock  frock  and  leaning  on 
a  stout  ash  stick.  The  cottages  are  thatched,  and  in  front  of  them  are 
rose-bushes  and  damson  trees  and  beehives.  Making  chains  of  dandelion 
stalks,  picking  cheeses  and  wearing  print  pinafores  and  shoes  well-nailed 
and  tipped,  the  children  play  in  the  grass  by  the  wayside,  while  the  bees 
buzz  by  them  heedless  of  their  merry  prattle.  The  world  has  been  kind 
to  Ilmington  ;  the  martins  make  their  mud  nests  under  the  eaves,  and  the 
people  are  Protestant  enough  to  burn  on  the  Fifth  of  November  the  effigy 
not  only  of  the  Pope,  but  also  of  any  par.son  whose  coat  and  vest  are 
fashioned  after  the  M.  B.  Guy  Fawkes  was  no  better  than  he  should  have 
been,  but  in  the  bonfires  and  the  bell-ringing  which  I  am  told  here  glad- 
den the  dull  autumn  day,  the  Ilmington  folk  are  doing  their  best  to  give 
him  immortality  ;  and  it  has  been  said,  though  I  .scarcely  think  it  true, 
that  as  the  church  is  orientated  and  thereby  encourages  superstition,  either 
it  will  have  to  come  down,  or  the  parish  will  as  a  whole  secede  from  the 
Church  of  England.  The  damage  that  this  latter  alternative  suggests  is 
too  awful  to  contemplate,  and  I  turn  with  relief  to  watch  the  ducks  wad- 
dling across  the  road.  Epicures,  and  not  poets,  care  most  for  these  happy- 
eyed  and  broad-billed  birds,  but  others  besides  those  who  think  most  of 
them  when  trussed  and  smoking  could  appreciate  these  which  now  are 
tumbling  over  a  broken  peel  lying  in  their  way.  The  first  one  tripped  in 
his  attempt  to  hop  over  the  peel,  and  the  others  try  the  same  experiment, 
and  as  a  result  send  the  echoes  of  their  quackery  to  the  top  boughs  of  the 
elms. 

The  peel,  which  is  the  long-handled,  flat  shovel  used  by  the  bakers 
to  put  their  loaves  into  the  oven,  reminds  me  of  a  besom,  and  that  again 
of  the  witches  who  used  to  travel  on  broomsticks.  There  was  a  time  when 
a  sight  of  these  uncanny  and  anointed  folk  here  abounded ;  and  by  the 
word  "anointed"  my  reader  will  not  understand  other  than  that  they  were 
sent  forth  by  the  Wicked  One,  who,  as  everybody  vensed  in  witchcraft 
knows,  has  never  hesitated  to  use  for  his  purpose  wrinkled  and  decrepit  old 
dames.  He  gives  to  these  favoured  friends  of  his  both  a  familiar  spirit 
which  enables  them  to  do  all  .sorts  of  things,  and  the  power  to  assume  the 
shape  of  some  animal  so  that  they  can  go  to  all  sorts  of  places.  One  of 
the  Ilmington  witches  took  the  form  of  a  hare — at  least  some  years  ago  a 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  45 

farmer  at  Black  well  shot  a  hare  and  broke  her  foreleg,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  Ilinington  woman  had  a  broken  arm  for  which  she  could  give  no 
satisfactory  account.  Nothing  could  be  more  certain.  Another  of  the.se 
individuals  used  to  bewitch  people  coming  home  from  Stratford  market. 
She  would  keep  them  for  hours  out  in  the  cold  night  before  she  would  let 
them  pass.  After  some  time  she  was  caught  and  hanged,  and  in  a  grave 
made  at  the  cross-roads  where  she  had  played  most  of  her  pranks  a  stake 
was  driven  through  her  body  and  she  was  pinned  safely  to  the  earth. 
Since  then  the  farmers  and  tradesmen  have  occasionally  been  bewitched 
and  kept  out  on  market  days  long  after  sunfall,  but  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  it  has  been  by  the  rosy  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes  of  maidens  whose 
'vows  to  renounce  the  wiles  of  the  Wicked  One  are  as  fresh  as  the  cowslips 
they  pin  in  their  bodice. 

But  we  stay  for  an  hour  in  Ilmington  in  order  to  visit  an  ancient  na- 
tive of  the  place,  who,  having  in  days  gone  by  ventured  to  do  some  jingling 
with  rhymes,  somewhat  to  his  own  profit  and  much  to  his  neighbor's  de- 
lectation, has  acquired  the  title  of  "  Poet."  There  is  something  in  the  air  of 
the  place  conduciveto  this  sort  of  pastime.  Thirty  years  since  the  parish 
priest  of  Ilmington  ventured  at  Torquay  to  read  "  Hamlet"  in  public  for  the 
benefit  of  a  local  charity.  For  this  he  incurred  the  displeasure  both  of  the 
Bishop  of  Exeter  and  of  his  own  ordinary,  the  former  desiring  the  incum- 
bents of  the  several  parishes  in  Torquay'  not  to  invite  or  permit  him  to  offi- 
ciate in  any  of  the  churches.  There  have  been  Scotchmen,  so  Dr.  Boyd 
of  St.  Andrews  tells  us,  who  could  not  understand  how  any  person  could 
love  God  and  read  Shakespeare.  But  the  people  of  Ilmington,  from  the 
respect  they  show  to  their  own  son  of  the  muses,  are  of  a  happier  frame  of 
mind.  To  them  he  is  the  Poet.  Indeed,  though  his  name  is  only  William 
Handy,  yet  he  styles  himself  "  William  Poet  Handy,"  speaks  of  himself 
as  the  Poet,  and  in  the  gate  leading  up  to  his  neat  thatched  cottage  has 
had  cut  out  the  letters  W.  P.  H.  In  this  cottage  he  has  lived  as  tenant 
and  owner  for  over  fifty  years,  his  own  age  having  now  risen  to  the  allot- 
ted three  score  and  ten.  In  front  of  the  house  is  a  flower  garden  where 
pink-tipped  daisies  and  clusters  of  sweet-betsy  grov  beside  the  weedle.ss 
paths,  while  at  the  back  extends  a  large  enclosure  in  which  abound  fruit 
trees  and  berry  bushes.  Close  beside  the  back  door,  partly  concealing  the 
humbler  premises,  is  a  fine  box  hedge,  and  there  are  some  box  or  yew 
trees  cut  into  curious  devices,  one  a  peacock.  In  the  garden  is  a  good- 
sized  arbor  made  of  a  huge  tree — box,  if  I  remember  aright  ;  and  in  the 
arbor  stands  a  rustic  chair  made  by  the  good  man  to  commemorate  the 


N 


46  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

jubilee  of  her  most  gracious  Majesty.  The  poet  is,  by  the  way,  an  Eng- 
lishman from  the  middle  of  the  heart  out :  and  a  thorough- going  Church- 
man and  tory  as  well.  He  could  drink  with  zest  the  toast:  "  Here's  for 
a  porcupine  saddle  and  cobweb  breeches  for  the  enemies  of  Old  England." 
More  than  that,  we  found  him  to  be  a  quiet,  genial  and  happy  .soul  ;  full 
of  anecdote,  kindly  disposed  to  his  neighbours,  imbued  with  a  .sense  of 
religion,  and  grateful  for  the  mercies  which  have  followed  him  all  the  days 
of  his  life.  Three  times  had  he  been  married,  but,  added  he,  as  he  told 
us  of  his  matrimonial  experiences,  the  third  venture  was  a  mistake  : 
whether  he  reckoned  it  among  the  mercies  he  did  not  say.  Of  the  blunder 
we  presently  had  .some  proof. 

When  we  called  at  his  door  the  poet  had  not  returned  from  Shipston, 
and  we  were  afraid  we  should  have  to  leave  without  seeing  him  ;  but  on 
driving  through  the  narrow  lane  from  his  house,  we  met  him  and  his  cart. 
He  is  a  market-gardener  and  this  was  market-day.  We  stopped  him  and 
told  him  who  we  were,  and  never  was  stranger  welcomed  more  kindly 
than  were  we.  He  insisted  on  our  going  back  to  the  house  and  picking 
.some  fruit  in  the  garden:  " 'Tis  still  pretty  middling,"  he  added.  We 
found  the  gooseberries  excellent.  In  the  meanwhile  we  contrived  to  get 
the  conversation  round  to  poetry — gently,  for  Master  Handy  is  mode.st 
and  reticent,  and  has  to  be  drawn  out  of  his  intellectual  solitude  as  wisely 
and  delicately  as  a  timid  fish  out  of  the  water.  "  You  have  written  .some 
lines,  Mr.  Handy,"  I  remarked.  "So  people  have  been  plea.sed  to  call 
them  ;  but  they  flatter  me."  "  Still,"  I  went  on  to  say  after  a  pause  in 
whicli  I  continued  my  attack  upon  a  heavy-laden  and  spiny  raspberry- 
cane  ;  ".still,  people  are  .seldom  mistaken  in  their  judgment  of  their  fel- 
lows." "  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  he  asked  wi.stfuUy.  I  did  not  think  .so.  I 
do  not  suppose  I  .shall  ever  appreciate  either  the  form  or  the  matter  of  Walt 
Whitman's  work — and  some  say  that  he  was  a  poet,  even  as  others  think 
highly  of  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper:  therefore  my  own  taste  being  faulty, 
po.ssibly  the  taste  of  others  may  be  likewise  errant  and  untrustworthy. 
However,  I  told  my  disciple  of  the  Mu.ses  that  I  should  much  like  to  read 
some  of  his  vense,  and  after  a  little  persuasion  he  went  into  the  house  to 
get  a  bundle  of  poems.  Professor  Dowden  or  Mr.  Saintsbury  would  com- 
plain of  my  calling  them  "poems";  so  would  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
but  no  matter.  Even  the  judgment  of  those  eminent  critics  may  some- 
times go  astray,  and  after  all  what  are  they  again.st  the  unanitnous  voice 
of  Ilmington  ?  There  are  people  here  who  never  saw  a  line  of  Shakes- 
peare and  never  heard  of  Lord  Tennyson,  but  I  am  pretty  sure  that  not 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  47 

one  of  the  three  gentlemen  just  named,  nor  for  that  matter  even  Mr. 
Andrew  Lang,  ha.s  ever  read  the  pathetic  verses  on  the  "  Murder  of  G. 
Kalabergo."     And  in  that  they  are  behind  the  good  folk  of  this  village. 

Many  great  men  have  liad  a  Xantippe  for  a  wife,  so  in  that  trial  and 
affliction  Poet  Handy  dilTers  not  from  his  kind.  It  was  both  pleasant  and 
painful  to  hear  the  quiet  way  in  which  he  sought  to  still  the  sharp  words 
of  his  "Other  Half,"  as  he  stumbled  about  in  searching  for  his  papers. 
Their  voices  came  through  the  open  windows  under  the  eaves.  He  has  a 
.short,  stout  figure,  slightly  stooping,  with  a  round  face,  bright  eyes  and 
whitening  hair  ;  she  is  younger  than  he  by  perhaps  ten  or  fifteen  years, 
with  thin  lips,  sharp  nose  and  chin,  .shrill  voice  and  rude  manners.  No 
one  knows  when  she  laughed  last ;  and  judging  from  what  we  heard  she 
led  the  poet  anything  but  a  merry  life.  After  a  keen,  sharp  hail-like 
.storm  she  came  out  of  the  house,  and  without  bestowing  the  least  look 
upon  us  proceeded  to  stir  up  the  fire  in  a  temporary  hearth  made  in  the 
garden  and  to  fill  the  kettle  for  tea.  Marrying  a  poet  does  not  make 
amiable  a  surly  woman  :  the  cat  though  turned  into  a  fair  maid  would 
still  catch  mice. 

Ma.ster  Handy  soon  followed  with  a  big  bundle  of  manuscripts  and 
printed  papers.  We  stood  around  him  in  the  .shadow  of  the  pear  trees 
while  he  picked  out  two  or  three  of  the  broadsheets  and  read  them  off. 
Those  that  he  thus  entertained  us  with  were  written  over  forty  years  ago, 
and  as  they  are  fair  specimens  of  a  kind  of  literature  that  once  circulated 
largely  in  the  country,  I  shall  put  them  into  an  appendix  where  my  reader 
can  indulge  his  curiosity.  Had  he  seen  this  dear  old  man  in  the  evening 
sunlight,  partly  reading  and  partly  reciting  these  lines,  he  would  perhaps 
discern  in  them  a  worth  which,  without  such  an  association,  I  fear  they 
will  not  be  suspected  to  have.  Prythee,  sweet  lector,  turn  over  to  the 
appendix  and  peruse  these  verses,  or  some  of  them,  at  once,  and  then  re- 
member, first,  that  this  was  the  style  of  literature  that  once  gladdened 
the  firesides,  and  the  hearts  too,  of  the  fathers  of  the  hamlet ;  next,  that 
the  writer  thereof  was  a  plain,  untaught  villager,  who,  like  Diocletian, 
grew  cabbages,  and  after  the  fashion  of  a  certain  Bishop  of  Ely,  cultivated 
strawberries,  only,  unlike  them,  he  did  this  for  a  livelihood  ;  and  lastly, 
that  the  clergy  and  gentry  of  the  neighbourhood  encouraged  the  author  by 
buying  his  .sheets  at  from  three  pence  to  half  a  crown  apiece,  while  the 
poorer  folk  sang  them  in  the  village  taproom  after  supper,  or  recited  them 
to  their  children  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  as  suitable  helps  to  an  upright 
and  a  religious  life.  Newspapers  were  scarce  in  those  days,  and  people 
could  not  be  always  reading  the  "  Whole  Duty  of  Man." 


48  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

This  doue  the  Poet  entertained  us  with  a  number  of  anecdotes  and 
some  recitations  from  his  unwritten  poems.  I  took  down  a  few  of  these 
at  his  dictation,  but  I  shall  not  venture  to  put  them  in  print.  They 
simply  illustrate  a  type  of  character  which  was  once  common,  and  which 
I  am  thankful  to  say  has  not  entirely  died  out  of  the  old  country  life. 

In  his  poorer  days — for  Master  Handy  was  once  less  well  off  in  this 
world's  goods  than  he  is  now — he  had  occasion  to  lodge  at  a  certain  inn 
in  Brailes.  Forty  or  fifty  years  ago  wages  were  "  thin,"  and  it  became  a 
tiller  of  the  soil  who  would  provide  against  the  rainy  day  to  look  keenly 
after  the  ha'pennies  and  the  farthings.  The  inn  keeper  charged  our 
friend  for  his  three  weeks'  entertainment  at  the  rate  of  sixpence  a  day — 
not  an  extravagant  price  to  those  who  know  anything  of  London  hotels, 
and  especially  of  such  as  have  an  embankment  view.  But  the  Poet 
thought  it  too  much,  and  when  upon  remonstrance  with  the  hostess  he 
found  it  could  not  be  reduced,  he  united  his  poetical  muse  and  his  arith- 
metical skill  in  these  lines  : 

Sixpence  a  day  is  three  and  six  a  week  ; 
A  man  who  asks  for  that  must  have  a  cheek  : 
Three  and  six  a  week  is  uiue  pound  two  a  year — 
The  lodging's  very  good  :  the  price  too  dear. 

' '  In  those  times, ' '  he  went  on  to  tell  us,  ' '  many  was  the  day  when  I 
stood  between  the  earth  and  the  sky,  and  owned  nothing  but  nij^  own  poor 
bodjr  and  the  clotlies  on  nij'  back.  Once  I  started  off  to  see  my  sister,  at 
a  time  when  work  was  .slack,  with  but  three  ha'pence  in  my  pocket.  It's 
over  forty  years  agone  now,  and  times  have  changed  ;  but  it  was  a  dull 
morning  about  the  beginning  of  December,  and  I  had  some  miles  to  walk 
over  a  road  that  was  not  as  well  kept  as  roads  are  nowadays.  The  air  was 
ju.st  keen  and  damp  enough  to  make  an  hungry  and  a  lonely  man  feel  cold 
and  sad.  But  I  kept  on,  and  after  a  while  I  got  to  mj^  sister's  cottage  : 
she  was  now  husbandless  and  childless.  As  I  went  by  the  window  I 
peeped  in.  There  was  the  poor  woman  sitting  in  front  of  a  tiny  bit  of  a 
fire  with  her  face  in  her  hands  and  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  crying,  I  was 
pretty  sure.  I  waited  a  few  minutes  and  then  I  tapped  at  the  door.  She 
opened  it,  and  when  she  saw  me  her  face  brightened  up — .she  had  a  happy 
heart  and  a  sweet  face  ;  and  now  she's  with  God  and  her  loved  ones.  So 
I  went  in  and  .she  warmed  me  a  mug  of  beer  and  put  a  little  spice  in  it, 
and  it  was  helpful  after  my  dreary  tramp.  After  a  bit  I  said  to  her, 
'Jane,  why  were  thee  crying  just  now? '  '  O  William,  I  wasn't  crying.' 
'But  I  saw  thee,  sister,  as  I  came  by  the  window;  what  was  it  for?' 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  49 

Then  she  told  me  that  she  hadn't  a  farthing  in  the  house,  and  that  she  did 
not  know  which  way  to  turn  to  get  a  morsel  of  bread  or  a  faggot  of  wood. 
And  I  told  her  that  I  had  three  ha'pence  and  she  should  have  two  of 
them.  She  smiled  ;  and  then  I  went  on  to  say  that  I  would  stay  a  day  or 
two  with  her,  and  perhaps  something  would  turn  up.  Well,  loaves  don't 
roll  into  cottages  and  logs  do  not  tumble  down  the  chimney,  and  I  knew  that 
unless  we  wished  to  starve  I  should  have  to  stir  myself.  So  after  another  mug 
of  warm  beer — it  was  small  stuff  left  over  from  last  harvesting — I  went  out 
into  the  chill  air.  My  heart  was  bumping  against  the  soles  of  my  boots,  as 
the  saying  is ;  but,  then,  I  thought  that  even  sparrows  chirped  as  they 
.searched  for  crumbs,  and  I  must  keep  up.  In  my  pocket  I  had  some  copies 
of  my  verses  on  the  great  hailstorm.  Perhaps  I  might  sell  some.  As  I 
went  along  the  road  who  sliould  I  see  crossing  a  field,  but  the  parson  ! 
You  know  him,  sir,  one  of  the  kindest  of  men  and  one  of  the  best  musicians 
in  England.  Now's  my  chance,  said  I  to  myself;  and  up  to  him  I  went,  and 
touching  my  cap  asked  him  if  he  could  help  me  by  buying  my  poem  on  the 
great  Hailstorm.  'Are  you  Poet  Handy?'  said  he.  'I  am,  sir,'  said 
I.  'Then,'  said  he,  'give  me  two  copies,  and  here  is  half-a-crown  for 
them  ;  and  if  you  go  to  the  rectory  and  tell  the  butler  I  sent  you,  he  will 
give  you  something  to  eat,  and  perhaps  the  servantsmay  buy  some  of  your 
verses.'  I  could  scarcely  find  the  words  to  thank  him.  He  went  on  his 
way  and  I  went  to  the  parsonage,  and  sure  enough  the  butler  took  me  in, 
supplied  me  with  a  lot  of  bread  and  beef  and  a  pot  of  ale  that  was  fit  for 
a  Christian  to  drink,  and  then  the  ser\'ants  bought  up  my  little  stock  of 
poetry.  They  liked  to  hear  about  the  Hailstorm ;  and  when  I  left  the 
house  to  go  back  to  my  sister  with  six  or  seven  shillings  in  my  pocket  I 
felt  as  light  as  a  cork.  Before  that  was  spent  the  bad  weather  turned  and 
work  came  on,  and  I  began  to  pull  up  hill." 

"The  clergyman  you  spoke  of,"  said  I,  "  is  still  living.  He  was  an 
accomplished  musician  and  used  to  play  the  organ  at  his  own  services." 

' '  If  j^ou  ever  see  him,  sir,  will  you  tell  him  that  the  man  whom  he 
helped  that  wintry  day  has  not  forgotten  him  ?  " 

"I  will  do  so.  Master  Handy  ;  and  with  your  permission  I  shall  jot 
down  your  little  storj-.  But  I  was  told  that  the  other  day  in  the  stable  at 
the  '  Bell '  at  Shipston,  j^ou  recited  some  lines  you  made  about  the 
'Harrow.'  I  mean  the  old  public  house  at  Shipston  of  that  name. 
Wouldn't  you  give  them  to  us?" 

He  complied  and  looked  over  my  shoulder  as  I  wrote  them  down, 
telling  me  where  to  put  the  stops  and  explaining  that  the  ' '  narrowness  ' ' 


50  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

spoken  of  in  the  first  verse  refers  to  the  space  in  a  hungry  man  which 
stretches — well,  ab  icmbil.  ad  spin. — a  most  valuable  figure. 

Wlieu  the  Poet  to  Shipston  market  comes, 
He  generally  to  the  Butcher's  runs 

If  he  finds  himself  too  narrow  ; 
He  buys  some  beef  to  have  a  treat, 

And  cooks  it  at  the  '  Harrow.' 

A  piece  of  beef  affords  relief 

When  hunger's  giving  pain  ; 
And  a  glass  of  beer  my  heart  doth  cheer  ; 

Then  I'm  refreshed  again. 

Swell'd  with  delight  I  has  my  pipe, 

And  smokes  for  half  an  hour  ; 
Then  takes  my  flight,  and  bids  good-night 

To  all  upon  the  Stour. 

I  suggested  the  propriety  of  correcting  the  grammar  and  making  a  few 
alterations,  but  he  observed  that  poets  had  a  freedom  in  these  matters 
which  did  not  belong  to  prose.  I  did  not  like  to  dispute  the  point,  being 
modest  in  the  presence  of  genius  and  remembering  that  as  a  tree  that  is 
heavy  laden  with  fruit  breaks  her  own  boughs,  so  when  a  poet  falls  into 
mistakes  is  it  out  of  the  exuberance  of  his  imagination.  But  we  must 
needs  bid  our  entertainer  good-bye.  He  is  one  of  the  kind  who  write  the 
quaint  lines  that  appear  on  tombstones,  much  to  the  amusement  often- 
times of  the  stranger.  Such  men  are  worthy  of  acquaintance.  They  live 
their  quiet  life  in  these  still  villages  unknown  to  the  world,  and  when  they 
die  their  name  speedily  passes  from  the  memory  of  even  their  friends  and 
neighbours.  Nobody  knows  the  author  of  that  popular  and  delightful 
stanza  which  appears  on  thousands  of  tombstones  in  Christendom,  and  in 
the  obituary  column  of  the  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger  occurs  more 
frequently  than  any  other  ode  of  like  nature,  the  first  line  of  which  is 

Afflictions  sore  long  time  he  bore. 

It  is  a  sad  loss,  but  there  is  now  no  help  for  it.  Our  Poet  has  jingled 
syllables  and  bj'  his  thrift,  industry  and  patience  he  has  made  for  hiui.self 
a  home  and  secured  the  respect  of  those  around  him.  Were  it  not  for  the 
virago  scraping  potatoes  yonder  he  would  be  the  happiest  man  alive,  and 
as  it  is  he  does  not  look  as  though  he  allowed  .so  trifling  and  commonplace 
a  circuni-stance  as  that  to  interfere  .seriously  with  his  peace  of  mind.  The  knee 
breeches  and  the  sleeved  waistcoat  show  that  he  does  not  care  for  changing 


OVER  THK  IIIIvLS  TO  BROADWAY.  SI 

fashions  aud  new  ideas.  On  a  Sunday  afternoon,  before  the  bells  ring  for 
evensong,  he  retires  to  his  arbor  with  his  Bitjle,  pipe  and  pot  of  beer,  and 
also  pencil  and  paper,  and  there  while  the  butterflies  flit  in  the  warm  sun- 
beams and  the  wasps  test  the  sweetness  of  the  plums,  he  smokes,  and  reads 
aud  meditates.  If  the  in,spiration  come  upon  him,  he  at  once  takes  down  the 
thought  and  makes  the  rhyme ;  and  when  there  is  no  inspiration,  then  he 
cons  over  the  words  of  the  Holy  Book  and  suffers  his  imagination  to  take 
him  beyond  the  summer  clouds,  even  to  the  land  that  is  very  far  off. 

Almost  every  village  has  a  cricket  club.  Ilmington  is  not  an  excep- 
tion to  the  rule.  We  .saw  a  game  going  on  in  a  field  not  far  from  the  last 
house.  There  was  not  much  excitement.  The  men  walked  after  the  .slow- 
flying  ball ;  one  youth  in  particular  was  as  deliberate  as  though  he  were 
on  his  way  to  school.  He  dragged  himself  at  a  snail's  pace  over  the 
ground;  the  other  players  meanwhile  adjusting  themselves  to  his  time. 
The  bat.sman  did  not  hurry  more  in  his  runs,  so  that  no  undue  advantage 
was  taken.  So  quietly  did  the  game  go  on  that  we  were  startled  at  hear, 
ing  some  one  cry  out  to  the  gentle  youth  :  ' '  Move  faster  ;  take  off  your 
shoes  and  stockings  .so  that  the  grass  may  tickle  your  feet !"  Did  the 
speaker  ever  have  a  mosquito  bite  him  on  the  sole  of  his  foot? 

The  sitn  had  almost  dropped  behind  the  hills  as  we  drove  out  of 
Ilmington,  and  already  the  twilight  shades  were  creeping  over  the  deeper 
parts  of  the  valley.  Few  people  passed  us  on  the  way  :  these  are  quiet 
roads,  and  one  might  walk  for  miles  and  not  see  a  human  being.  There 
were,  however,  two  or  three  immense  flocks  of  starlings  that  fled  over  the 
fields  and  hedgerows  in  very  clouds,  and  in  one  meadow  we  saw  about  a 
hundred  and  fifty  sheep  standing  head  to  tail  in  two  long  unbroken  lines 
with  almost  military  precision.  The  first  sheep  had  their  heads  towards  a 
gate  and,  without  heeding  passers-by,  the  rest  stood  ready  to  go  through 
as  soon  as  the  gate  should  be  opened.  In  the  gathering  gloom  they  were 
an  odd  sight. 

We  soon  reached  Dascot,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more,  Shipston — our 
journey  ended  but  our  day  not  over.  It  was  our  fate  after  supper  to  have 
an  interview  with  a  worthy  who  has  done  to  many  Shipston  folk  what  Oliver 
le  Dain  did  frequently  to  Louis  the  Eleventh.  He  has  dabbled  in  both  eccle- 
siastical and  secular  politics,  but  being  a  high  Churchman  and  a  conser\-ative 
he  is  always  found  on  the  right  side.  The  times,  however,  are  against 
that  same  right  side,  which  is  not  a  refreshing  thought ;  and  the  burden 
of  my  friend's  conversation  ran  upon  the  condition  of  Shipston  and  the 
state  of  rural  England,  both  being  thought  by  him  to  be  in  the  last  stages 


52  OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY. 

of  degeneration.  "We  shall  never,"  cried  he,  "produce  another  Lord 
Nel.son  or  another  L,ord  Beaconsfield,  and  at  Shipston  we  shall  never  have 
another  Parson  Evans.  Everything  has  gone  to  the  dogs."  Lucky  for 
the  dogs,  thought  I.  In  his  opinion  the  evil  which  has  befallen  the 
country  springs  from  the  extension  of  the  franchise  to  the  irresponsible 
and  uneducated  classes.  Why,  he  asked,  should  a  man  who  has  neither 
stick  nor  stake  in  the  country,  pays  no  taxes  for  its  support  and  does  not 
understand  the  first  principles  of  social  or  political  economy,  have  a  voice 
in  the  destinies  of  the  land  and  nation  as  great  as  he  has  whose  whole 
being  is  inextricably  woven  into  the  very  texture  of  both?  In  other 
words,  should  a  servant  have  a  vote  equal  to  that  of  his  master  ?  These 
questions  I  did  not  venture  to  discuss  ;  I  never  should,  under  the  most 
favorable  circumstances,  anymore  than  I  .should  try  to  set  to  music  the 
snip-snip  of  a  barber's  shop  or  to  read  the  heart  of  a  newspaper  correspon- 
dent. There  are  some  things  to  me  past  finding  out,  and  I  never  could 
understand  whj^  a  tradesman's  son,  if  God  gave  him  genius  and  made 
him  a  gentleman,  should  not  be  treated  at  least  as  courteou.sly  as  is  the 
man  who  is  a  lord  only  by  the  accident  of  birth.  I  suppose  birth  does  go 
a  long  way,  as,  for  instance,  with  horses  and  dogs  ;  but  I  do  not  make  out 
why,  given  the  same  intellectual,  moral,  physical  and  spiritual  qualities, 
one  man  should  not  be  esteemed  as  highly  as  another  and  allowed  equally 
the  free  course  of  life.  My  friend  could  have  told  me,  but  I  did  not  wish 
him  to  think  I  had  even  the  smell  of  heresy  upon  me.  He  remembers 
the  time,  as  well  as  I  do,  when  the  alms'  women  used  to  wear  long,  scarlet 
cloaks,  which  cloaks  were  given  them  about  St.  Thomas's  Day,  and  not 
only  proved  to  them  a  means  of  comfort  and  pride,  but  also  showed  that 
when  Charity  tried  her  hand  on  old  paupers  ' '  not  even  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory  was  arrayed  like  one  of  these."  And  verily  a  scarlet  cloak 
against  the  white  snow  looks  almost  as  picturesque  as  a  scarlet  hood  on 
the  priest's  surplice ;  and  as  Doctors  of  Divinity  wear  the  hood  because 
their  studies,  so  it  was  said  of  old  time,  have  brought  them  near  to  the 
blood  of  Christ,  so,  I  suppose,  the  wearers  of  the  cloak  may  be  looked 
upon  as  very  near  to  God.  I  am  sure  they  are,  but  I  do  not  like  to  see 
poverty  thus  arrayed.  It  is  very  nice  for  the  people  who  buy  the  cloaks  ; 
it  is,  perhaps, — well,  say  just  a  little,  less  nice  for  the  people  who  wear  the 
cloaks.  My  friend  laments  that  the  latter  are  less  kindly  disposed  to 
the  former  than  are  the  former  to  the  latter.  This  is  not  surpri.sing  ; 
but,  then,  as  he  says,  England  is  bent  on  self-destruction.  Did  Jeremiah 
ever  act  as  village  correspondent  ? 

My  down-hearted  and  broken-spirited  acquaintance  sells  seeds  as  well 


OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  BROADWAY.  53 

as  handles  scissors.  He  has  been  a  benefactor  to  most  of  the  canary  birds 
and  onion  beds  in  the  parish  ;  and  if  my  neighbours  only  thought  half  as 
kindly  of  me  as  his  neighbours  do  of  him,  I  .should  be  a  happy  man.  They 
know  his  worth  at  handling  either  a  bri.stly  beard  or  a  bristly  question. 
His  great  weakness,  paradoxically  .speaking,  is  his  .strength  of  feeling. 
He  rumbles  and  blazes  when  confronted  with  a  matter  contrary  to  his  taste, 
like  a  Vesuvius  in  eruption.  He  would  treat  his  opponent  with  the  ashes 
and  cinders  of  his  anger  and  contempt  as  the  lava-streams  and  fire-.showers 
treated  Herculaneum.  In  other  words  he  is  excitable,  and  then  some- 
times sarcastic.  You  should  have  heard  him  .speak  upon  the  perversity  of 
the  church  authorities  in  .spoiling  good  .schoolmasters  to  make  inefficient 
parish  priests  and  bishops.  On  this  he  waxed  as  eloquent  as  Archdeacon 
Farrar  is  apt  to  do  at  St.  Margaret's  when  he  is  demolishing  .some  huge 
puppet  that  he  has  industriously  and  deftly  built  up.  I  confess  my  cheeks 
tingled  and  my  toes  got  fidgety  as  my  friend  poured  forth  his  torrents  of 
invective.  The  blacker  his  words  became,  the  bluer  grew  his  countenance. 
Oh,  'twas  a  fearful  moment  ! 

It  .seems  that  the  new  Bi.shop  of officiated  last  Spring  at  a  con- 
firmation, and  his  manner  is  said  to  have  been  sufficiently  unaffable  to  give 
offence  to  both  clergy  and  people.  The  Bi.shop  is  a  low  Churchman  ;  one 
of  the  kind,  I  believe,  who  has  sunk  so  deep  in  the  mire  of  Protestantism 
that  he  cannot  get  his  legs  out  without  losing  both  gaiters  and  shoes.  He 
also  wears  those  robes  which  ever  since,  and  probablj^  from  before,  Thomas 
Killigrew  wrote  that  facetious  comedy  called  "  The  Parson's  Wedding," 
have  been  known  as  the  "  Magpie  Suit."  The  Puritans  had  a  deal  to  .say 
about  "  pied  prophets,"  but  when  the  Puritans  have  had  a  chance  they 
have  taken  very  kindlj'  to  lawn  and  satin.  So  has  this  bishop,  and  his 
dignity  hangs  heavily  upon  him.  Among  other  things  he  ordered  the 
verger  not  to  allow  the  clergy  to  go  into  the  vestry  while  he  was  present : 
he  remembered  that  the  inferior  clergy  are  often  obstrusive.  They  had, 
therefore,  to  vest  wherever  they  could,  but  not  in  his  presence  ;  nor  were 
they  to  see  his  shirt-sleeves.  "  The  next  time  his  Lordship  comes,"  said 
the  parish  clerk,  "he  will  bring  with  him  his  lady's  maid."  The  late 
bi.shop  was  genial  and  easy  of  access,  and  the  difference  was  felt  keenlj'. 
"Another  schoolma.ster,"  wound  up  my  friend  sententiously. 

I  acknowledge  that  I  saw  nothing  so  very  awful  in  this,  but  it  must 
have  been  bad  to  have  drawn  out  so  much  feeling  on  the  part  of  him  who 
spoke  to  me.  We  parted  :  he  relieved  and  I  tired.  For  the  day  has  been 
long,  and  not  without  deep  thankfulness  do  I  drop  the  extinguisher  on  the 
candle  by  my  bedside,  and  say 

Good  night  and  joy  be  wi'  you  a'. 


Uppcnuii. 


'  I  ^HE  reader  will  here  find  copies  of  three  of  the  broadsheets  pub- 
lished by  our  Ilmington  poet.  Forty  years  since,  as  I  have  said, 
these  verses  had  a  popularity  among  the  people  of  the  neighborhood, 
which  it  is  safe  to  say  nothing  that  the  reader  with  a  more  cultured  taste 
will  style  poetry,  has  ever  had.  They  were  recited  and  sung  everywhere, 
preserved  among  the  letters  hid  away  in  the  big  family  Bible,  and  the 
poet's  health  was  toasted  by  folk  who  never  heard  of  John  Milton  or  Mat 
Prior.  If  my  reprint  serve  no  other  purpose  than  to  illustrate  the  class 
and  style  of  literature  which  was  once  popular  and  common  in  the  villages 
of  England,  I  shall  have  done  that  which  will  please  the  lover  of  human 
nature  and  of  ancient  ways.  And  though  this  sort  of  thing  is  now  out  of 
date,  and  the  critic  will  find  fault  with  more  perhaps  than  I  could  point 
out  were  I  censoriously  inclined,  yet  I  am  sure  none  will  miss  seeing  in 
these  lines  a  spirit  of  reverence,  a  pathos,  and  a  considerable  power  of 
description.  Discerning  these  gifts,  most  likely  some  who  take  the  trouble 
to  read  them  will  be  glad  to  think  that  the  old  village  life  produced  men 
such  as  William  Handy,  able  to  help  their  neighbors,  a  little  way,  at  least, 
towards  the  development  of  mind  and  heart. 


(54) 


VERSES, 

COMPOSED  ON  THE  DESTRUCTIVE 

T/ial  occurred  at  Shipstonoji-Siour,  and  the  neighbourhood,  on  the  2jst  of  June,  /Sj/, 
which  destroyed  a  great  quantity  of  Glass  in  the  Windows  and  Greenhouses, 
and  nearly  destroyed  all  the  Corn  in  the  fields  wherever  it  passed  over. 

ALSO, 

An  account  of  the  destructive  stonn,  that  visited  (on  the  same  evening)  the  districts 
of  Lancashire,  Cheshire  and  Yorkshire. 


BY  W.  HANDY,  ILMINGTON. 


Come  listen,  people  far  and  near, 

While  I  to  you  unfold, 
The  tidings  of  a  thunderstorm 

Which  late  I  did  behold. 


A  person  kindly  called  me  in, 
To  shelter  from  the  storm, 

And  grieved  much  I  was  to  hear, 
A  female  laugh  and  scorn. 


In  Eighteen  Hundred  aud  Fifty-one, 

The  twenty-first  of  June, 
On  Saturday  morning  I  set  out, 

To  cross  the  fields  of  bloom. 


The  mother  being  sorely  grieved, 

Said,  "  do  not  be  so  vain, 
"  It  is  the  Lord  that  sends  the  storm, 

"  I  hear  you  scoff  with  pain." 


At  Todenham  town  I  soon  arrived, 

The  morn  was  very  fair, 
Between  the  hours  of  twelve  and  one 

There  seem'd  a  change  of  air. 


She  then  call'd  on  the  name  of  Christ, 
And  said  in  earnest  pra\er, 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  thy  soul, 
"  And  all  the  village  spare." 


I  had  scarcely  pass'd  the  village  through. 
When  the  sky  began  to  lower, 

The  sun  for  some  time  ceas'd  to  shine, 
And  then  came  on  a  shower. 


Now  every  womau,  child  or  man. 
When  this  great  storm  was  o'er. 

They  thought  that  ne'er  on  all  the  earth 
Was  such  a  storm  before. 


When  this  was  o'er  I  travell'd  on, 

My  verses  for  to  sell, 
But  quick  came  ou  a  thunder-clap. 

And  then  the  hailstones  fell. 


Not  since  the  days  when  Egypt's  king 
Did  heaven's  own  will  assail, 

And  God  sent  down  for  punishment 
A  storm  of  fire  and  hail. 


(55) 


56 


APPENDIX. 


Like  broken  ice  the  hailstones  fell, 
And  smote  both  tree  and  field, 

Which  for  the  use  of  every  one 
Their  kindly  fruit  they  yield. 

Next  I  went  on  to  Wolford  town. 

Across  the  fields  of  grain, 
There  I  beheld  much  smitten  corn. 

Which  cannot  rise  again. 

By  all  the  road  I  pass'd  along 

Much  damage  there  I  saw. 
The  wheat  struck  down,  the  beans  were  cut, 

The  blossom  from  the  straw. 


At  Shipston-on-Stour,  Worcestershire, 
And  in  the  villages  around, 

The  damage  is  supposed  to  be 
Quite  twenty  thousand  pounds. 

That  afternoon  the  mighty  storm 

To  Lancashire  it  went. 
There  men  may  see  for  many  a  day 

Where  it  its  fury  spent. 

At  Chedderton  the  large  park  trees 
Up  by  the  roots  were  tore, 

Houses  and  walls  the  rushing  flood 
From  their  foundations  bore. 


The  farmers  are  with  sorrow  struck. 
When  they  behold  their  corn. 

And  some  say,  "  We  shall  ruiu'd  be, 
"  By  this  most  awful  storm. 

"  For  all  our  crops  are  nearly  spoil'd, 
"  Which  we  with  pleasure  viewed, 

"  But  now  in  sorrow  we  behold 
"  Our  fields  with  ruin  strew'd." 

The  gardens  are  much  injured,  too, 

I  saw  as  I  did  pass. 
The  nurserymen  have  losses  great 

In  fruit  and  broken  glass. 

Some  people,  perhaps,  will  not  believe 
The  words  that  here  are  spoke, 

But  Shipston  and  the  neighbourhood 
Have  half  their  windows  broke. 

For  miles  aromid  it  was  severe 
In  the  neigh1)ouritig  counties. 

And  much  destruction  has  occurred 
To  heaven's  growing  bounties. 


At  Radcliffe  bridge  a  horse  was  killed 

By  lightning  on  the  spot, 
.\nd  an  infant  in  its  mother's  arms 

Which  shared  that  fatal  lot. 

What  can  the  parent's  feelings  be, 
The  thought  will  make  one  shudder, 

And  she  herself  was  injured  much. 
But  likely  to  recover. 

The  mother's  heart  is  nearly  broke, 

Her  mind  can  take  no  rest, 
For  thinking  of  the  little  child. 

That  died  upon  her  breast. 

In  storms  the  Lord  doth  show  His  might. 

And  every  wind  that  blows, 
Whate'er  may  be  our  worldly  loss. 

It  still  His  mercy  shows. 

In  losses  think  of  patient  Job, 

For  patience  brings  reward. 
He  lost  his  children  and  his  wealth, 

But  still  he  prais'd  the  Lord. 


VERSES, 

COMPOSED   ON   THE   I,AMENTABI<E   DEATH   OF 

(A  Native  of  Mickleton,) 
AND    A    STRANGER,  KNOWN     BY   THE    NAME    OF    NIX, 

WHICH    OCCURRED,    BY    ACCIDENT, 

Wilhiii  a  few  days  of  each  other,  in  and  near  the  Cutting  at  the  west-end  of  the 
Mickleton  Tunnel,  on  the  Oxford  and  Wolverhampton  Railway  ; 

The  first  on  the  25th  Sept.,  the  other  on  the  13th  Oct.,  1851. 


BY  W.  HANDY,  ILMINGTON. 


ONCE  more,  my  friends,  I  am  come  round, 

Sad  news  for  to  declare, 
And  to  remind  you  of  that  day 

For  which  we  must  prepare  ! 

Another  warning  speaks  aloud. 

And  speaks  to  you  and  me. 
The  bell  has  tolled — in  wh  ich  we've  heard — 

The  death  of  Young  FARLEY  ! 

September  on  the  twenty-fifth, 

He  left  his  mother's  cot, 
And  went  to  work  upon  the  line. 

Which  proved  his  dj-ing  spot. 

This  3'oung  man  used  to  drive  the  tip. 

When  first  the  line  began  ; 
But  for  tlie  space  of  his  last  week 

He  with  the  full  trains  ran. 


The  smith  had  now  his  coffee  boil'd, 

And  got  his  breakfast  ready, 
Which  he  often  did,  and  caution'd  him. 
When  working,  to  be  steady. 

For  Farley  seem'd  so  venturesome 

When  he  was  working  there. 
Which  caused  the  blacksmith  for  to  say, 

"Remember  ! — you  take  care." 

Now  breakfast  time  it  was  gone  b}-, 

And  Farley  he  went  out  ; 
The  other  train  was  coming  down. 

He  thought  he  heard  them  shout. 

For  part  of  this  was  left  behind. 

Which  had  run  off  the  road. 
The  other  part  had  broken  loose. 

And  coming  with  its  load 


And  when  he  took  his  last  train  out. 
It  then  was  breakfast  time. 

He  went  into  the  blacksmith's  shop. 
Which  stands  just  by  the  line. 


The  wheels  were  now  going  round  so  fast. 
The  spokes  you  could  not  see. 

And  Farlej-  ran  to  throw  the  sprag. 
Which  caus'd  his  death  to  be. 

(57) 


58 


APPENDIX. 


But  now  he  could  not  sprag  the  wheel, 

To  stop  the  whirling  train, 
He  thought  at  last  of  taking  hold, 

But  instantly  was  slain. 

By  taking  hold,  he  thought  to  ruu, 

But  that  was  all  in  vain, 
The  cross-piece  caught  him  on  the  back, 

And  turn'd  him  to  the  train. 

All  this  was  in  an  instant  done, 

Before  a  word  was  spoke. 
And  every  bone  within  his  frame 

Beneath  the  wheels  were  broke. 

So  suddenly  he  was  struck  down, 
No  groan  or  moan  was  heard, 

Nor  yet  a  struggle  on  his  frame — 
He  died  without  a  word. 

Four  men  then  bore  him  to  the  inn. 
Their  feelings  were  niucli  hurt, 

And  every  man  lay  down  his  tools, 
And  went  from  off  the  work. 

Like    thousands    more  —  when    troubles 
come, 

And  danger  seemeth  nigh. 
They  then  begin  to  feel  afraid, 

And  for  a  moment  cry. 

But  cries  alone  will  not  avail. 

To  take  our  souls  to  heaven, 
But  we  must  pray  to  Jesus  Christ, 

To  have  our  sins  forgiven. 


The  news  was  now  soon  spread  around. 
And  reach'd  his  Mother's  ears, 

Which  only  multiplied  the  grief 
She'd  borne  for  many  years. 

O  how  she  wept,  and  griev'd  at  heart. 
When  this  sad  news  did  come  ; 

At  length  she  cried,  "  I  am  bereaved 
Of  my  beloved  son." 

So  let  us  now  more  careful  be, 
And  take  heed  of  our  ways. 

For  many  here  have  met  their  death, 
And  not  liv'd  half  their  days. 

James  Farley's  gone  to  his  long  home. 

His  weeping  mother  cries  ; 
God  rest  his  soul,  now  in  his  grave 

His  mangled  body  lies. 

A  fortnight  and  three  days  being  gone, 

Another  man  was  killed, 
By  a  fall  of  earth,  upon  that  line 

Where  Farley's  blood  was  spilled. 

This  man,  he  being  a  stranger  here. 

Of  him  I  say  but  little. 
Another,  hurt  at  the  same  time 

Was  took  to  the  Hospital. 

Let  these  sad  deaths  remind  us  all, 

Our  time  is  drawing  nigh, 
And  put  the  question  to  ourselves — 

"Are  we  prepared  to  die?  " 


VERSES 


COMrOSKD   ON   THE    MURDER   OF 


<xia-.  i^jk.LjLBEi^a-o.[> 


Giovanni  Marie  Ferdinando  Kalabergo,  was  an  Italian  Jnveller,  and  had  resided 
at  Banbury  /or  up7uards  of  forty  years  ;  he  was  shot  on  Willscott-hill,  on  the  evening 
of  the  joth  of  fanuary  last,  by  his  nephew,  Gullielmo  Giovanni  liazetti  Kalabergo, 
zvho  had  lately  come  over  from  Italy  ajid  had  only  resided  with  his  uncle  about  ten 
weeks.  He  was  tried  and  convicted  for  the  offence  at  the  Oxfot  d  Assises  and  executed 
on  the  22nd  of  March,  1852. 


BY  WILLIAM  HANDY,  ILMINGTON. 


Ye  natives  of  this  land  I  pray, 
That  would  your  feelings  show, 

Come  purchase  now  of  me  to-day. 
Before  I  further  go. 


In  Banbury  town  he  made  his  home, 

And  by  industry  got 
A  horse  and  trap  there  of  his  own. 

To  take  things  from  his  shop. 


Unto  these  lines  that  here  are  wrote, 
Pray  for  a  moment  spend, 

And  hear  the  subject  on  the  youth 
Who  shot  his  kindest  friend. 


Two  days  from  home  he  had  been  out 

A  usual  round  had  been. 
Which  shortly  after  brought  about 

This  sad  and  murderous  scene. 


Kalabergo  was  the  man  we  hear. 
That  met  this  awful  fate, 

By  one  that  was  his  ki:isman  near. 
Who  sought  his  life  to  take. 


The  business  of  the  day  being  done. 
They  turned  for  home  again. 

But  no  thought  in  his  mind  had  run. 
That  he  should  soon  be  slain. 


A  jeweller  was  this  man  by  trade, 
And  ofttimes  travelled  wide, 

But  ne'er  had  felt  the  least  afraid, 
When  riding  side  by  side. 


Tho'  standing  on  the  brink  of  death. 
This  wicked  deed  was  planned, 

And  shortly  after  yields  his  breath 
Unto  a  murderer's  hand. 


By  him  with  -whom  he  had  such  care, 
And  brought  across  the  sea. 

In  order  that  he  soon  might  share 
His  trade  and  property. 


This  nephew  now  was  walking  by, 

Who  had  the  pistol  got, 
To  Willscott-hill  they  soon  drew  nigh 

He  there  his  uncle  shot. 


(59) 


6o 


APPENDIX. 


This  was  the  friend  he  thought  to  trust 

In  care  of  all  his  wealth, 
One  ou  which  you  might  think  just 

As  worthy  as  himself. 


This  murderous  man  could  take  no  rest 

But  shortlj'  ran  for  home, 
A  fire  was  kindled  in  his  breast, 

Against  his  heart  of  stone. 


But  man  by  nature's  so  defiled, 
That  came  by  Adam's  fall. 

And  enters  every  mother's  child, 
And  brings  death  on  us  all. 


The  craft  he  used  this  to  conceal. 
Struck  numbers  with  surprise. 

For  many  thought  his  grief  was  real, 
And  then  he  told  such  lies. 


But  none  would  think  a  man  like  this, 
PoRsessed  of  such  a  friend. 

Would  sacrifice  his  hope  of  bliss. 
To  such  a  wicked  end. 


A  month  before  the  time  we're  told, 

It  seems  the  plot  he  laid, 
He  bought  the  pistol  and  the  mould 

And  then  the  bullets  made 


Some  person  distant  heard  the  shot. 
When  travelling  on  that  way, 

Who  shortly  came  unto  the  spot, 
And  found  the  body  lay. 


With  which  he  meaut  to  shoot  his  friend 
When  he  a  chance  could  see. 

Which  caused  his  own  life  for  to  end 
Upon  that  fatal  tree. 


And  several  more  not  far  behind, 
Came  up  the  corpse  to  view, 

Which  to  their  sorrow  they  did  find, 
A  man  whom  they  well  knew. 


This  wicked  man  was  soon  found  out 
That  did  this  murderous  deed. 

Still  lies  proceeded  from  his  mouth, 
The  people  to  deceive. 


The  news  soon  weut  to  Banbury  town 
And  filled  each  mind  with  woe. 

Still  they  hoped  he  might  be  found 
Who  laid  his  body  low. 


But  after  this  within  the  cell. 
He  to  the  priest  confessed, 

And  said,  "  I  did  my  imcle  kill, 
"  Which  much  disturbs  my  rest. 


I'or  none  in  years  advanced  So  far, 
Was  more  beliked  than  he. 

The  way  he's  gone  to  heaven's  bar. 
He  paved  with  charity. 


"  Great  God  have  mercy  on  my  soul 

Though  guilty  as  I  be. 
Pray,  wash  me  clean,  and  make  me  whole 

Through  Christ  who  died  for  me. 


When  first  a  stranger  to  this  land. 
His  acts  of  love  were  shown. 

To  the  distressed  he  lent  his  hand, 
And  soon  became  well  known. 


"  My  seutence  now  is  to  be  hung, 
My  friends  will  long  l)ewail 

The  loss  of  me,  tlieir  wicked  son. 
Now  lying  in  Oxford  jail." 


.^sk  where  you  may  it  is  the  same, 

By  high  or  low  degree. 
For  miles  around  he  bears  the  name, 

"A  man  of  Charity." 


This  little  rhyme  I  now  must  end, 

Which  is  alas,  too  true, 
God  rest  the  soul  of  that  dear  friend, 

Killed  by  his  own  nephew. 


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